from enemies of mankind to their protective spirits (closed)

[ployboy]

Who: Tim, the Bats, potential others
What: December catch-all
When: Month of December to early January
Where: Lakeside

Content Warnings: Keep an eye on thread headers (animal death, casual suicidality, past injury to start us off:)

It's been a week since-

Well, whatever, it's best to start from the beginning.

The beginning: it's dark. Not your average everyday darkness: advanced darkness. Because of this, and because of a lame(ish) leg, the trek to Lakeside takes longer than Tim would've liked. But he had been to Lakeside before (Kieren knows) and he had swapped out locks to the Blackbear resort cabin: out with the old, in with the new seemed fitting and it was always top of the lists of things to do when searching for tips for a big move.

So: new town, same darkness, same snow, new locks.

(Tim, being Tim, had been unable to resist rigging his bear traps to launch themselves to any successful intruder- boobytrapping is illegal but who gives a fuck? This is Canada.)

It's freshly December, he thinks, when he knows he's been followed.

It would be less unnerving if he didn't have the nagging suspicion of who stalked him- Tim distinctly remembers praying for a grizzly attack when his suspicion turns to certainty. But he needs to hunt, and the bo staff with the retractable blade makes for a fine spear (and after so many month of maintenance he had been unable to find a substitute for keeping the thing ready that's as effective as keeping it in use). He returns with two rabbits, dead and tied to his pack, and Blackbear cabin has yet to procure an actual bear to maim him. Tim digs out his keys to the front door, simply because he has keys to the front door, and so: suck it.

He wonders if his brothers are aware that this is what his nightmares are made of:

Jason Todd and Damian Wayne are in this house Tim's been convinced he'll be using, and Tim knows he's outgunned. He remembers the pirate Edward's cabin, had popped in there every once in a while. But it was tiny and unsafe. And this resort cabin is now very unsafe, and tiny.

(It's not tiny.)

Tim unlatches the rabbits from his pack and decides to not acknowledge-- (oh, who is he kidding-?)

"This is the worst intervention I've ever seen."

There's not even a banner.

And Tim hates himself, because he's frowning (he's always frowning) and as he lays out the rabbit to skin and dress, he can't even grasp his one knife as he turns to the yahoos and asks, loathing the words- "Is everything okay?"

Comments

for Jason cw death, firearms

[ployboy]

[If you can't beat 'em, join them.

And so Tim finds himself sprawled on a sofa with Jason on the other end, for the second time in his life. It's not any less surreal because Jason is behemoth-sized instead of pint-sized but Tim's done a good job of keeping a lid on that particular sentiment, he thinks. Hell, Tim thinks he hasn't shown any big emotion one way or another- day after day, his hours are wasted either on a bed and asleep or in the frost of a hunt that inevitably ends up only successful enough for him not to starve to death. It's simple. Life's simple.

Tim is fighting consciousness on the sofa, and he's too hungry to feel hungry and he's doing a bang-up job at keeping a lid on that. But there's restlessness gnawing on his bones, and he swings his legs up to sit with his knees drawn up to his chest. Boots are on the cushion. Tim's too tired to care.

There's a thorn in his si

several thorns.

Tim blinks, thinks,

we should hunt the bear

and says,]

So why don't you use your guns, again?

[Poking the bear will have to do.]

I never even saw you hold one during the massacre. That would have justified anything.

[reneger]

( why isn't he shooting people, tim asks, while sitting right next to him.

jason would think it was more strange if it was coming from anyone not tim. tim's behind. he's young. he's - not used to jason. considering where they are, well.

he turns a little in his seat, so he's half-facing tim. looks himself over, and pats down his jacket. there's a pack of cigarettes (not for him, for emergencies), a small first aid kit, a flashlight, a small roll of wire he'd scavenged, but - )

I look like I have any guns on me, Timmy? My Kimbers didn't join me for the ride.

[ployboy]

You know what I mean.

[Because as owlish as his looking on is, Tim's now got his hook. Fishing for men is what the Scripture calls it.

Tim knows this because Kate.

Tim can acknowledge the metaphor is apt.]

There's no way you couldn't have gotten your hands on a handgun or rifle by now.

[reneger]

A gun is a tool. One I've got no problem using, but like any good tool, there's a time and place for it.

( a loose lift of his shoulders. tim's trying for - something. and it's irritating as hell, not to be able to read him as well as he could have before. it's the cold, maybe. being outside of gotham. tim being younger yet somehow more fucked.

or maybe tim is doing it on purpose. which would be an extremely timmish thing to do. )

Guns're great for long distances, but they're also limited by how much ammo you can find and keep around. This place is crap for supplies. I didn't need one during the massacre, nor do I need one right now. If I did, I'd just take yours.

[ployboy]

[There's an air of expectation that never really leaves or lessens, but Tim sags his shoulders with a sigh anyway once he realizes there's no other story he's going to be fed. So,

(Tim cants his head in an idle challenge- try taking this gun, he says without words or malice)

nothing at all to do with Batman's rules.]

Got it.

[And White Ghost was crowned prom king of the class of '69.

(Is that-- PC.)

(His mind short circuits. Then he blinks.)]

Where's Bitewing?

[Tim drops a hand to (un)tie a shoelace.]

Have you seen Damian's dog yet? I don't know where he's keeping the cow, now.

[reneger]

( it's not the answer tim was looking for.

then again, jason has never been one for fulfilling others' expectations of him. )

He's outside. 'wing'll come around when he feels like it. And no, I haven't. D doesn't come 'round all that often.

( which is fine by him. not because he doesn't want to see the little gremlin, but because he gets why damian'd throw his lot in elsewhere. he's got better people to be an annoying pest at. )

Did you think I'd say something about playing by the rules? That I decided, fuck it, maybe following B's whole no guns bullshit might be worth it? A gun is a gun.

[ployboy]

[On the whole... allegory of fishing:]

How am I supposed to know what you were going to say? You haven't even slit my throat yet. You haven't even tried.

[dynamite is sometimes used. Tim considers this low level, low quality, TNT.]

I'm not saying that so you start with the apologies again. But forgive me for not knowing what I should owe this 180 to. You're the one who insists we should know each other.

for Damian

[ployboy]

[It's mid month- by Tim's count. So in reality, Tim muses it might be early December: there's no light to track, and staring up at stars only rewards him with ice on his eyelashes and a windburn he can't shake off for hours after, making sleep difficult. And sleep is something he's taken to doing- for once in an actual bed. The mattress might be right on the floor but this was a solid vacation resort once upon a fucking time; the mattress is firm with enough give that Tim had quickly decided to not even fight it.

There's not a lot to d

scratch that, there's not a lot that Tim wants to do. So he doesn't do it.

Life can be really freaking simple looking at it from this lens.

Sometimes Robin is around the cabin. Sometimes he's not. Tim had left a book in one of the unused bedrooms- Tokyo MewMew, this graphic novel about magical girls with some animal characteristics. Ives had had a crush on the wolf girl. Tim could still remember the poster over the guy's bed. But that's weird isn't it. To remember a guy's bedroom layout when they're not even friends anymore, not really. Anyway: manga. Just volumes 3 and 4 so far.

Tim hadn't read them. He hadn't felt like it.

Feeling like doing nothing but knowing that he has to do this, Tim pads up the hall on Black Bear cabin one day when Robin's in.

He almost wants to demand to see the dog. Robin will sometimes have fur on him- fur on his fur, with enough consistency that Tim just has to-- but what he sighs instead is,] I'm sorry.

[--]

About B.

[--he holds up a hand; he's not finished. (But he wants to be.)] Not that he's gone. Exactly. But I know... what it's like to expect things. Outta people. Out of B. And I'm sorry. You don't deserve... he should have done better.

[thefifthchild]

[Damian, who had been reading exactly what Tim had given as some form of peace offering, doesn't look up.

He's been coping in the best way that he has on offer. He'd avoided his father the whole time that he was here beyond that initial excruciatingly awkward meeting, just like he avoids most people nowadays. The work is endless and - he does his part. Not as involved as he knows that he's supposed to be, but involved nevertheless.

This Tim has no idea what Damian's relationship is like with his father. This Tim wasn't there to say 'I told you so' as Damian naively trusted the directions he was given and stepped foot in the belly of the beast. This Tim just knows the time when they were both grieving two very different versions of the same sanctimonious prick.

Part of him wants to be petty. To respond how Tim has always responded whenever Damian has offered even the slightest bit of an olive branch and to snarl something about how all of a sudden he's a person and not a demon solely existing to ruin Tim's life.

He doesn't. He's too tired of fighting. Too worn out to be upset.

He closed the book. Tokyo Mew Mew. And he sits up.]

Mm. [Expecting something from Batman, or from Grayson, that's always been a common theme with Tim. With all Robins. Damian spent his entire life fixated on the idea of him, his elusive father that would come and lead him to something new, that he would be proud of him and the exceptional strength he had come into.

Only to fall into his life to find that his father already had a son. He had many of them. And each of them were more important than a scrap of DNA or a burden placed at his feet.] ...I ran away a bit after Alfred died, you know. Before I arrived here. I hadn't seen him in six months or so. A bit like you did.

[He hadn't told Tim that. Or Jason, for that matter. He still hasn't told them about Brother Blood. Or KGBeast. Or Deathstroke. Or the ghost at his shoulder talking into his ear about his conscience or the feelings he's ignoring.]

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel anymore.

[ployboy]

[Can it be?, asks the mocking voice in his head, Can the Batman really be the source of all of that friction between what was supposed to be a family?

Tim still doesn't like knowing there's a literal world out there that he doesn't know. The dislike is intense enough to badger a thin frown from his lips- a pout, Steph would call it. Because he's no stranger to sabbaticals- Cassie, Wonder Girl, was left behind for the better part of a year after Tim had run away. Turned his back on the world he knew, just for a bit, because it was painful.

Tim had thought it was the scenery that had been turning the sickle through his stomach. It wasn't; it had been the company he kept.

In a spur of-- wayward protectiveness (possessiveness, Steph would call it), Tim warns,] Who was with you?

[It's a question sure,

but it's not like Tim is ignorant to what things are attracted to lonely, hurt, child soldiers.]

You don't have to answer.

[Tim is at least also not ignorant to the fact that he's like Bruce in a way that many of them are not. He's also awkward-- innately so, clumsy and unrefined with words when he's on a hunt, and he bulldozes on, because Damian knows so much that he, or Jason, do not-] You know why Jason's arm was broken. When he arrived.

[--he can't even imagine and Tim, doing something new and unguided as he does it,

hesitates.]

Did that factor in at all?

[thefifthchild]

Nobody.

[Alfred.

Maya would have come with him, if he'd asked. Jon would, if he'd asked. Maybe some of his Titans too. Wallace, Emiko. Djinn. Even after everything he'd done to destroy those relationships, he knows that they would still probably follow him if he asked them, if he didn't lie to them or use them like his father does or like his mother does.

But he is the result of what made him. A manipulative, callous and lonely boy with a world on his shoulders that he can never truly be a part of.

He grimaces at the reminder of Jason's broken arm.

Nobody liked to discuss that. Or think about it. Jason had prompted that reaction, with the framing he had created, though Damian had pretended like he didn't understand. Of course he did. Evil cannot be cured, not entirely. If it could, then what does that say about him?]

No. That was... some time beforehand. [This is an advantage he's not going to let Tim push. Tim would expect it, no doubt, and part of Damian can only envision Tim snidely taking the chance to pronounce he was correct all along.

I killed someone. And I wanted to kill more.

Wanted.

Want.

He had Black Mask shackled to a wall, his plastered on skull cracked and bloody, he was barely able to even move and it was only half of what that monster deserved. Tim might even agree, considering his... proximity to Roman's victims. Not the nameless ones, the thousands who suffer every day because they give him permission to live and breathe, but the one they both know.

At least Brother Blood won't ever hurt anyone ever again.]

It was a multitude of factors. [...] Grayson was... comatose. [Ric.] Alfred had died. [Jon was... he wasn't gone, and he was still Damian's best friend and partner, but he was different. He went into the unknown and returned a stranger.] And I ended up quitting. I still have, officially.

[ployboy]

[No, Damian says.

Tim looks impossibly sad, the heartbreak evident after he had sworn off of having a heart so many times in the past week alone. And then Tim doesn't look like much at all, just another lonesome and hungry kid in the wasteland. He comments, dryly,] Congrats. I only lasted three days. [and then he was back by the Bat, tail between his legs because he had dared bite the hand that had dealt that blow to his spirit.

Back then, he hadn't known. That the War Games weren't a seventeen year old girl's fault.

But Tim knows now, and it's the driving force behind this sloppy confrontation, conversation, to not be a pawn in]

I need a favor that I can't ask of Robin.

[all the right pieces in all the right places are on the board,

and Tim lifts his gaze, sorry but not uncertain, and with it rises his sympathy:

Damian would understand. To not want to be a slave to the fate put before you, to what everyone expects from you. And Tim- he's learned, okay? He's learned that the definition of insanity is to do the same thing, over and over and over and over and expect something different.

He shifts his weight to his good leg, and idly wonders if he's now stuck with only one 'good' leg.]

And Jason won't understand it. I'm sorry.

[thefifthchild]

I wasn't aware you quit. [There was the period of a few months where Stephanie took over, but he never had the impression it was Tim's choice. It's not as if they've ever had the necessary trust for Damian to actually ask Tim for advice or about any of the details of what happened in that instance.

Damian inclines his head, his eyes only the slightest bit wary. An alterior motive. Obviously. Though it remains to be seen what exactly that is. And whether it's a problem.

He doesn't know what to do with the look of sympathy that appeared on Tim's face for a moment.

He files it away in a box of things that he will not think about.]

I don't need the preamble. [Flatly. He doesn't allow himself a moment of pride at the official recognition, when in the past Tim could barely stomach admitting that Damian really was Robin and not just some cruel joke. Because on the other hand. Of course you can't ask Jason for a favor, it's Jason.] What is it that you want?

for du Lac

[ployboy]

It's either late night, early morning, or mid afternoon. The moon isn't out. Neither is the sun. Tim walks with a torch, the light of the flames only barely illuminating enough of the path ahead for him to continue. There's only one bird dead and tied to his backpack today, tied securely enough to reach the cabin, like some morbid keychain charm. But he's not trudging through deep snow to reach the cabin.

In surprise, Tim balks.

After days in the desolate white of winter, he's suddenly not alone. The tracks he had hounded have shown him to company- and Tim only has eyes for the pig. His past employer, past friend, Louis, is thoroughly ignored despite the residual scare of learning the footprints belonged to him of all people- out here of all places.

(To clarify, the fear is for the man and not of him.)

Big Pig stands there, as if basking in the awe of these mere mortals. Mere mortal. And vampire. And Tim lamely lowers the dying torch of his, because even in this horrid and bitter freeze, he wonders if it scares the beast.

Greetings.

And Tim knows that if he doesn't act now, his chance will be gone forever.

(Because he doubts there will be a next year. For him. He hopes there isn't.)

I bring you good tidings.

And Tim wonders who it is that keeps this thing locked up for the other 11 months out of the damn year, or whose idea of a joke it is to have them wait for Christmas Ham. For the first time, he glances at Louis, blood bags on his mind.

"Who first?" He asks, under no impression that du Lac's got a mind to forfeit his win over the winter wilds either. Not because Tim is here.

[flambeaux]

A vampire might thrive with less sunlit hours to worry about, but here in this world Louis has to deal with the goddamn cold. He's only easily recognizable because he felt it was polite to pull down his balaclava when faced with a giant—beast, god, whatever he is. Louis would like to make it out of this encounter in one piece if he can.

He sees the boy he wished would look after his own self-preservation better, but he's been keeping his distance. Tim was never a disgruntled employee per se, but he did quit after an argument. Louis thought it best to leave him alone.

Louis stares bleakly up at the Boar again. His instincts are firing off, but he is like prey too tired to run.

"Go ahead," he says to Tim. "Ain't nothin' he has that I want."

That's not true. Louis is, like most anyone else, bound to survival, hunger, and addiction. Last year, he asked for a blood bag, dreading to think of where (who) it may have come from. This year, his heart feels like it's frozen over, and the marathon of survival doesn't appeal.

[ployboy]

Louis was never not a gentleman, and even the Boar has his respect; Tim wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole, and then he remembers feeling the exact same way when Louis had trailed after him after the Girls Night. Right down to feeling like his eyeballs are nothing but frozen marbles in his skull.

There's a slow wind around them. It picks up the most recent snow flurries and they feel like cinders, small fires, when some land on Tim's cheeks. He's frowning- something hardly even worth mentioning, but Tim is torn. Equal parts pained and desperate, he doubts that the depression in his being is anything du Lac would register, no matter the lingering, asking gaze on him. The Boar has nothing du Lac would want- fine.

Tim had maybe hoped the other would recognize that there's so many other people here than just him.

Now with his wishes open to spectators, Tim feels his skin crawl and himself grow despondent instead of only looking the part.

A tracking device, Tim thinks.

He's not sure how long the Boar will entertain this silence-- he's not sure why he's freezing, clamming up-- it's nothing that he's supposed to do and everything that makes him wrong, that Tim Drake can't get the words out when he needs to, it shouldn't be difficult to form the word 'tracker' and

"Are- are you going back to Milton? Soon?" He asks Louis, because there's shame in taking up the Pig's time to ponder.

God damn it, Tim thinks-- where's that Bear when you need him.

"D'you have the Store? Nobody can find you, what've you been doing-?"

[flambeaux]

Louis is a gentleman to a fault, and he has many faults. Curiously, he watches Tim's gears turn. Louis doubts the Boar will punish them for stalling, but then again, he's never tested this theory. Tim does that for him, in his classic Tim way.

Louis thinks about being rude, telling Tim it's none of his business where he goes tonight, but he can leave him if he so wishes. He is no longer his employer, and he doesn't like to be watched when he feeds on the next sorry half-starved deer.

But—ah, the concern. Time plays its tricks in the storm of ennui. Where has Louis been? Louis knows, mechanically, that he sleeps with Lestat, that he rouses himself just long enough to feed, but he can't say he truly knows. The nights have passed, and he still lives.

And Tim buzzes about this like a damn mosquito.

"I—Yes, I still have the store. It's still standin', isn't it?" Unlike his house, a burnt-out shell after the attack, abandoned now. "Reduced hours. Too damn cold. Winter is for sleepin'."

And he doesn't have a day shift employee anymore—not that it matters. Daytime is so short in the winter. Still, it matters. He misses dragging his hand down his face in the wake of Tim's problems, and he hasn't bothered to replace him. Deep down, he knows no one really can in any way that matters.

Cw blood and deaths mention and also pig emeto incoming

[ployboy]

It's concern and it's shaky and precarious, clumsy and halting and loose. Tim can feel pain behind his eyelids and it's up in the air whether his eyes themselves are freezing or if there's tears there, only the wind dries and takes them with it. Overcompensation has never (always) been Tim's preferred distraction; his eyes narrow in tired rote action. "You could've told your friends you were going to take a sabbatical."

Can't even name drop Chloe, though Tim figures he c-- Tim, cringing against himself, stammers something that might be a scatterbrained apology if it weren't for all of the air that isn't in his lungs.

He's always a mess around Louis. Can never get ahead or ahold of himself. Tim swipes a hand to clear his face of windswept hair, what's lost its place under his hood and is now just a dingy spiderweb to free himself of before his mind takes him back to the Cradle.

Blood, Tim thinks.

He whines (or something), swallows down a voice without words because he can still remember that massacre, that blood, clear as day that's left them and he can't not think about blood with the vampire and he looks to the pig and says,

"5th edition."

Son of a bitch, maybe it doesn't have to be blood, okay?

"Dungeons and Dragons. The Essentials Kit and Starter Set bundle. It's sold as a single thing so I know you can do it. It has the 6 dice sets, the master screen- there's figures and stat sheets. Those are important and y-"

The Boar is old and patient and Tim can see it close its beady creepy eyes and ohmygod it's going to barf-

"You gotta save the pages! Laminate the-!"

That is amenable.

Re: Cw blood and deaths mention and also pig emeto incoming

[flambeaux]

"Ain't like I planned on it," he shoots back at Tim, and his house was burned down, and he ate a lot of people that night. He interrupts himself to shuffle awkwardly away from the splash zone. Season's greetings. Eugh.

A book, Louis thinks. Nevermind all the extra paraphernalia. He thinks Tim is asking for a book, and honestly many men have drowned in the pages of a book to escape life's travails. Louis has. It's not a bad idea. He ought to ask for one himself, one that Rorschach hasn't already scavenged from some house for the library already.

But he doesn't. What's the point? Louis feels his sadness is too deep. But he does take an interest in Tim's... whatever it is. He stares down at the kit protected in its odd modern packaging, and the Boar (none the worse for wear) can sense Louis holds no request on his lips.

"Must be a good read if there's five editions and it ain't a textbook." Okay, grandpa.

for Wynonna cw sssstalking and suicidality

[ployboy]

Tim saw Kate once and then he retreated into the busiest growth of bushes and thorny woods at his back, and he hadn't seen her since. This is important, because he learns she simply doesn't leave the cabin she's staying at with the Officer and Pistol for days, and it helps that he learns when she does go out for however brief the period- to take the dog out or whatever. There's no avoidance and no awkward dancing around: encounters are simply not possible, and Tim makes sure of it. It means he splits his skin and his leg is more stiff and lead-weight than not on account of venturing out of Black Bear cabin when the wind howls at its worst, or when the wolves themselves are pacing to and fro and yelping when they scamper after their prey.

It's fine.

Tim has fire.

He has coats and hoods and gloves.

He has a gun.

There's no reason any of this shouldn't be fine for the likes of him. And some time after days spent away trailing that Boar, Tim can't tell what's midday or midnight and the dark is annoyingly still. The Resort is lively (a term used hella loosely), relatively, and after stalling at the perimeter of those Cabins all arranged together in must've been a pretty sight Once Upon A Time, Tim finds himself too tired to give a damn:

He ducks his head and trudges on through snow-cleared paths. He passes Their cabin, because the one he's been staying at is stupidly close.

It's not his cabin. Tim doesn't have any place that's his-- he hasn't, maybe ever, had a place that's all his. He misses the Theater anyway; nofuckingbody was ever getting inside without an invitation-- a luxury that Tim can't have here in Milton. Lakeside. Whatever. He turns open the front door and it's either his storied paranoia or the residue of what used to be good mentoring that has him

freeze, again. Stall. Right by the front door.

But it's cold. He's tired. He doesn't give a damn when he slinks surly inside into the boxed dark and says, "Shoot me already."

[pacificator]

She doesn't reach for Peacemaker, there at her hip. She doesn't even get up from where she's sitting, lounging back in a chair that rocks recklessly on its two back legs. Her booted feet stay where they are, one crossed over the other, up on the edge of a nicely-made table. They really hadn't skimped when they furnished these cabins. "You couldn't have said that to me ten months ago and saved us all this trouble?"

There definitely was a time when she would have at least shot at him — somewhere after he broke into Ruby's house during their party, and again after he broke into her house to steal his stupid stick thing back — but even then, Kate probably wouldn't have been happy with her about it. And now, well...

She narrows her eyes at him, this pale kid with his shock of black hair skulking around what's presumably his own living space. He doesn't look good, but then, when has he ever? The kid keeps himself isolated and on the fringes out what passes for their little society here, it's not like she thinks he's been doing okay. And she knows the toll it takes, that choice. He's not the only one who's decided to excise themself from the world and people around them. Look at him: he looks like a half-drowned, half-frozen barn cat. Waverly would want to give him some warm milk and a good blanket.

But Wynonna knows this: this empty cabin without even a half-hearted attempt at creature comforts or niceties. She wasn't so much younger than Tim when she was squatting in the hollowed-out spaces other, better people left behind. Even the cold, that silent, patient cold of an empty house that feels so much worse than the living cold of the outdoors, feels familiar. "So, what, you live here now?"

[ployboy]

In the dark, his brows shoot up. Not because his grousing earned him a reply today and definitely not because of who that idiotic response belonged to. To take bait and make off with it has become a sport he doesn't remember holding so dearly before. Now it's maybe the only thing he can hold onto. (Negative, his rational brain chimes: he's just cold and grumpy and thus, extra.)

(But damn, he gets it already: go ahead and die, Drake. The prospect can be exciting.)

He lets his backpack fall on the ground- just another act of disrespect to the shelter he and Wynonna find themselves in. Tim makes use of his experience and doesn't track the low light to look at Wynonna-- if she was going to do anything, she already would have. She's not even standing. As if he's mute, or deaf, (or just disappointed somewhere deep down), he just starts to shrug off his coat that's over his coat. There's snow. And then it's on the hardwood floor. (And the handgun is properly holstered on him now, on the harness and not his hips.) Tim huffs into his hands as he drops the gloves too.

Which is to say, in Tim-speak, he's toeing that line between speechless and knowing he will never run out of questions if it's Gotcha they're playing at. (What did Kate tell her-? And remind him why he should even care, despite the slow tear at his chest? Nothing ever happened.)

He thinks about living... here. Well, no shit. But what's the big difference between here and the tiny hunting cabin South-East? One of the two spaces is safer, but one is warmer. Tim freezes for the third time... he ultimately decides to keep the boots on, and he stalks sorely towards to fireplace.

There's only one thing he needs to know and, seeing as neither of the other Batty bunch are present (traitors), Tim asks, with patient indifference (oh he knows he's being a dick-), "Is everyone okay?"

[pacificator]

The kid starts shedding layers, dropping them directly onto the floor — did you grow up in a barn lifts to mind, ascerbic — and stalks past, studiously ignoring her in a way that makes her certain he's all too precisely aware of her. How she's sitting, the way she watches him. "What exactly makes you think I'd come find you if they weren't?"

He's not at the very bottom of the list, but neither is he anywhere close to the top. Tim's left hovering somewhere in the middle third of choices. She wonders, for the first time, where he sits in his family hierarchy. There's something to the way he's always stuck in the middle of things here that feels familiar to her from long, long ago; from the days when she was a middle child and not oldest one left.

Hell, he's just a kid. "I think the better question is: are you okay?"

Does she really care? She'd probably better decide before he tosses that question at her like a dart. Tim aims to wound; she's seen it before. A defensive trait more than an offensive one, maybe — something else she knows well. Just like this empty, lonely cabin. She never got up in front of a bunch of strangers to pontificate at them about how they should survive — idiots — but it's not like she's saying they're the same. Just that she knows this, slouching and snowmelt on the floor from outside boots that don't belong inside. She can almost hear Mama's voice in her head, telling her to clean it up.

And Kate likes him. Which means Wynonna needs to keep an eye on him, hard as he makes that. She can't tell if he's a loner by design or if this is all some year-long cry for help, but either way she's in the soup now. "You have food?"

[ployboy]

He's shaking, because he just spent days hunting down the Big Pig and learning it just might be better to create shelter than to haul it with you, at least in these months where breathing freeze-dries the lungs and hauling an ounce more than is necessary is too much energy spent for nothing worthwhile. He had tried to take that truth from Crozier and had fucked it all up, in the end blocking the old man out and retreating into the winter anyway- Tim's done his time with masters of preparedness, but he's a city kid.

So he's by the fire, shivering and turning his hands over themselves to bring any feeling back into them that isn't hurt. He's not sure if he's ever going to recover from his thrice-broken arm (Jesus Christ, what had he been thinking?) because he swears it's all icicle where the bone should be. The slosh of snow is too quickly starting touch his skin, and it's a wonderful distraction.

The last time he saw Wynonna, she'd been genuinely stunning in red. At the party.

The last time he heard her, she had told him to go to hell.

And now Tim is unaffected by the slight despite only ever wanting to help people-- because- he gets it. It's fair. He is an imbecile, thank you. He's worked very hard to become one. It means a lot to know he's been on the right track, painful as it's been and will be. He's got his mouth set now in a thin line that's not a pout, but something kin to a pout. It's what would be expected of him, he thinks:

Big damn hero turns out to be a glory hound, good for nothing, burden- still manages to get all butthurt over the fact.

And then he turns his eyes to her and he can't figure her out.

He can't figure out what's so wrong with him that he can't have a single (not. one.) home where he doesn't have to hear what a disappointment he is; he had just wanted to let himself fall on the bed.

But that's life-- real life, not that idealistic version he'd been clinging onto despite it all. Tim doesn't have all of the answers and he doesn't need them. He feels the ugly crawl of anxiety under his skin anyway, maybe because he's almost waiting to hear his dad's words out of her mouth and he's ready to snarl a highly predictable What do you care?

He's too hungry to be hungry.

And she doesn't deserve to be asking him to answer something so-- loaded, just like that, without even giving him a role to play, a script to recite.

Tim Drake can be (and is) an incompetent bastard of a kid, a real son of a bitch (sorry, Mom) but God... he shouldn't be the only one explaining things to himself that he doesn't understand.

He wants to change clothes.

He unholsters his gun (no longer a gun, his gun) and leaves it on an end table. Says, lamely, distantly, "If you're here to borrow a cup of sugar... I don't know. Try the pantry."

Because

Jason's weird.

Maybe there is sugar in the pantry-?

Tim, weird and tired and cold and tired, looks towards his-- towards the room.

With Wynonna here, his legs feel deep in cement shoes. His heart's going to thrum out of his damn ribcage. But damn it... he's gotta change-

"Wait. Here. I'll be right back."

And

because he's an idiot, truly, belatedly, he snaps,

"Don't touch anything."

Damian has... books. Around.

Anyway-

[pacificator]

"Too late," says Wynonna, no stranger to being an ass for the hell of it, herself. "I already licked it all."

Would anyone be surprised if she had?

The rest of it she ignores, in favor of letting her glance follow him as he moves around: to the fire, looking tired and cold and snow-damp, and then toward another room. She doesn't move. He might go out a window, in which case she'll just have to track him down again, but that would be pretty hypocritical of him, considering how many times he's broken into other people's homes and shelters. This is only the first time she's done it back to him. "If you're hungry," she calls after him, "Jopson always makes extra."

Thomas would feed pretty much anyone here, she thinks — always excepting Hickey — and she's pretty sure he'd see the same things she does: the bags under the kid's eyes, how thin he is.

She looks at the gun he'd set down. It looks strange on him; he lacks the appropriate swagger. Or maybe it's just that he's too aware of it. It's weird to see Tim Drake with a gun.

She does, eventually, move. Just over to the fire to toss another log on, to stir up the coals and get some heat really pumping as she waits for him to come back. No need for them both to be cold and uncomfortable with this.