singillatim | from enemies of mankind to their protective spirits (closed)

Entry tags:

from enemies of mankind to their protective spirits (closed)

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?"

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[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.

Edited 2024-12-17 01:53 (UTC)

( 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.

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.

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.

[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.

( 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.

[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.

Do you want me to go back to hurting you?

( he looks - put out. annoyed. tim's question isn't unreasonable: jason knows damn well what he did and the damage caused by it. he also knows how pointless it all is. )

Look. It's not all that deep. If you'd been the second - if what happened to me happened to you, what would you have done?

[It's really not that deep.]

If you shoot me, I won't ever bring this up again.

What do you have on you?

( he could check tim over himself, but look, he's asking. politely. tim should know well enough what he's asking for: tim asked jason to shoot him, jason is asking what weapons he has. )

G 17. [Honestly, Tim has spent nights with the unremarkable thing in his hands, turning it over again and again. He's wondered, over ghosts and his own claw-scratch on raw skin, if the fucking gun had been purchased on discount.

Any gun store in any city in any state, carries the safe, easy, dependable G17.]

Bullet's chambered.

[And, because this is a big fish--

Tim finishes fidgeting with his shoelaces, but it's too much to twist his expression into anything. He has to-] I... really need to know who- what to trust. It's like me asking you to just freaking hit me the first time I saw you. You didn't. I'm waiting for that foot to drop, and it's exhausting.

( this is why tim's the stupid, idiotic brat who became robin after jason died. it's this right here: this brand of self-destruction, how he both believes in people too much and yet pulls this crap at the same time.

jason rolls his eyes. but he holds a hand out, palm up. doesn't try to frisk the weapon off of tim, just asks, )

Hand it over.

[Fifty-fifty he regrets this.

Fifty-fifty his regret is because Jason will hold his gun hostage for X amount of time, babbling something about self care or therapy or whatever.

Tim doesn't figure he'll die this easily: Tim had given a cool, neat little opening and Jason hadn't taken it. I'll never ask again wasn't met with No shit because I'll kill you. And as well as Jason can keep a secret (not that well, Tim is learning), the man loves his theatrics.

Tim can't be nervous over something he's practically begging, so he reaches into the inner of his jacket. And he presents it to Jason in an open palm:

G17, in all of its dull and common glory.

(Somewhere in this maneuver, Tim has forgotten how to breathe.)]

Just click the safety off.

[Hell of a trust fall, comments the old him, in what must be the bitchiest voice he's heard from himself.]

( tim is such a goddamn idiot.

jesus christ.

he offers the gun out, and jason takes it easily enough. clicks the safety off, as if it's second nature. it's not a gun he's used before, but it's a glock. he knows these like the back of his hand.

with the safety off, jason grabs onto the barrel of the gun. turns it around so the handle's pressed into tim's hand, and forcefully wraps tim's fingers around the gun itself.

raises tim's hand and the gun, with jason's fingers wrapped around tim's wrist. jason guides both the gun and tim's hand up to his own throat, until the barrel of the gun is pressed right along the edges of the scar bruce left on his neck after jason's stunt with the joker: the batarang that had dug deep enough that he could have sworn he was going to bleed out even before the fucking explosion that destroyed the building they were in. ah, well. life can't be that easy.

so here he is. releasing the barrel of the gun, leaving tim holding it with the safety off pressed right against jason's neck. if he shoots, it won't dig deep enough to kill jason if he's able to get the wound taken care of fast enough. )

Shoot.

[He knew it and it's still a sickle to his stomach: Jason loves theatrics. Tim knows the battle is lost the second the barrel is turned to its new target. To fight it would be to introduce more unsavory (but no longer unsuspected) factors. His hand is got by Jason's, his fingers are as pliable as a doll's.

The gun points, digs into Jason's throat.

Tim wonders if Jason- this Jason- knows that Joker did die. He wonders if he knows Batman did die.

Tim knew he'd regret it, but he guesses he's still a stupid kid who needs- to... know, rather than accept the truth before it burns him. From the inside out, from the outside in- Tim knows hurt well. So Jason releases the barrel of the 9mm and Tim, slack-hand, lets the piece drop.

It's half of a miracle it doesn't fire. G17s aren't the fanciest bits of metal Tim knows.

But at least one of them should have known what to expect.

His face- his skin- the itch at the palm of his hand that had held the grip- burn. But Tim finally breathes.

And the worst (one of the worst) thing about being Tim is that the words don't come when they should; it's ravenous frustration on his tongue and throat. Tim makes to stand.]

( jason doesn't think tim will do it, but he's waiting for him to decide regardless. it's only fair, isn't it? how many times has tim been on the opposite end of the barrel? and regardless of what's fair - this is about trust. a lack of it. tim's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for jason to lose his shit again and go on a rampage - and what's worse is jason can't argue it's not going to happen again, because chances are high it will. he'd snapped at bruce, some of his conversations with bigby had ridden the edge of jason's tolerance. tim knows exactly what buttons to press to set him off if he really wanted to.

the gun drops and jason's eyes follow it down to the ratty cushion it lands on. he doesn't reach for it, not even to switch the safety back on.

instead, jason waits. watches as tim tries to stand, eyes finally looking away from the gun to focus back on tim himself. )

You want knife instead? I've got one.

( strapped to the back of his belt in its sheath, which he's reaching for. )

I...

[What part of any of this could possibly make Jason believe... or maybe it's not even that Jason believed Tim would, it's just that he wants...

Tim, with open desperation, paces back to stand in front of Jason and he holds his hand out because] Sure. Yes. Why not.

( a good enough answer for him. jason doesn't pause any, just unsheaths the lightweight hunting knife, twists it around his fingers, and holds it with the blade pointed toward him so he can offer the hilt out to tim. )

Have at it.

[Not a lot to narrate when someone's only functioning outside of their body and even that third space of being is as cloudy as the water off Gotham's docks. Tim feels the solid weight of cold that signifies an object in this hellhole where everything unalive is simply cold, and he knows he closes his hand around it.

His hands are cold and Tim shakes off his free hand. Transfers the knife to that hand and shakes the cold out of that one. The one that had been holding the knife first.

He thinks he mumbles something like] Stupid. [before he lets the knife into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and he stalks towards an open room to the right of the short hallway- the washroom- with a sulking] Whatever. Give me a minute. I gotta pee.

[Never let it be said he can't communicate his needs.]

( good bye to his knife, which disappears into tim's hoodie without any bitching from jason. yet. there's a roll of his eyes at the stupid side commentary because why the fuck does jason care if tim needs to take a piss?

but he does wait until tim's halfway out the room before he calls out a, )

You'd better give me my damn knife back when you're done with it. It's hard enough to find anything decent around here, I'm not losing the ones I showed up with.

[It takes zero amount of self control to not flip a middle finger to Jason as he retreats, because it doesn't even cross Tim's mind that he should. He's shutting the bathroom door with a decisive click and he wonders if it's really this easy to let him kill himself.

And then Tim thinks, well duh.

Of course it is.

He mulls over the fact that Jason will likely know that he won't: Tim's a chicken in all the ways that matter. He has the window creak open instead, and he flushes the empty toilet with the toe of his boot as he's halfway wiggled out of the window having used the toilet as a step ladder.

Outside and freezing his balls off in only a hoodie and jeans, Tim chucks the stolen knife into the snow, somewhere, because it feels about the same as flipping Jason the middle finger.

The whole ordeal takes a minute or three (or five because of Reasons) and then Tim's under the blankets in his own room (because of course he has to break into his own room), in his own bed.

Stupid fuckers, all of them.]

( jason doesn't stop to consider tim using the knife on himself in any potentially lethal way. because tim isn't alive for tim. he's stuck here for much the same reason jason is: there are people who he can help that others won't or can't, leaving tim stuck with the sense of eternal obligation to keep the rest of the world running smoothly. it's not that he's a coward, it's that he's too damn good at the job he gave himself.

tim flees, and jason - stays right where he's at for a few more moments, before he's rolling his eyes, shoving a hand against his thigh to pull himself up to his feet. jason grabs onto the gun, making sure the safety's on to avoid the risk of it going off when he tucks it into the back of his belt. so he can go kick the bathroom door open, note it's empty, and

jesus christ.

it's easy enough to make his way back outside. to find bitewing sniffing at the knife that tim's thrown onto the ground, rudely, because he's an ass. tim tucks himself under the blankets of his bed to hide away from the world, and jason shoves open his window, cursing under his breath at what a fatass his dog is as he lifts him up, shoves the dog through the window so he can have a grand old time chewing at the corners of tim's blankets, then turns around on his heels to fuck off.

his gun now. tim can borrow the dog because clearly he needs someone to talk to more than jason does. )

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from enemies of mankind to their protective spirits (closed)

for Jason cw death, firearms

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cw previous self harm, and whatever brand of masochism this is

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cw: self-harm, self-destructive tendencies, whatever form of masochism this is also.

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cw derealisation

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cw explicit SI and bitchiness

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