the more you suffer the more it shows you really care.

[ployboy]

Who: Tim Drake's broken arm and ____
What: uselessly tidying up the graves at the churchyard
When: Nov 1, 2
Where: church, the community hall



Content Warnings: general depressive moods, some bashing of traditions, a very superficial understanding of a culture, death and talk of death is a given

Tim is actually pretty sure he's managed to snag himself a women's coat: it's black and long and elegant, and it has this faux fur lining it and the big hood. It's very quickly become his favorite garb on account of it fitting stupidly well and the aforementioned fuzziness. Paired with sufficient layers (as if there is such a thing) and the heavy black (sparkly) scarf snaked around his throat, the attire even looks good. Good enough, anyway.

It'll have to do.

Dark circles under eyes seems to be a common symptom of Milton's lifestyles and Tim isn't too far behind already. The fitful sleep has him moving excruciatingly slow as an additional precaution. (If he hurts his arm again he will fucking. shoot. someone in the face in feral retaliation.) The thought makes him snort. It's the closest he's come to emotion since he started his day's pet project. It's hard to scrape off ice and years' worth of snow packed onto stone with only one arm functional, holding the shovel.

A few names on grave markers have been freed. Other memorials just have parts of them newly unobstructed through Tim's efforts but are still well buried in white.

Tim works in silence. Kinda hates it, honestly.

But it's whatever.

Between clearing snow from plots and trudging carefully around the yard, Tim ducks into the community hall to warm himself. Or maybe to hear some chatter around him, to see people who aren't, like, ghosts.

And so goes his day, and the next.

He's never put so much effort into something so fruitless before.

][ooc: prose, brackets, wildcard or bump into this fool elsewhere, go wild! HMU if you want anything specific][

Comments

[ployboy]

That's an Option C response if he's ever heard one. The quiet spurs him on to make himself small, the first time in the day he's felt the need to hide under the heaviness of too-many awkward layers of clothes. Tim frowns, unaware he's frowning, and the settling weight in his chest is welcome back with open arms.

It's a child's plot he's working on, because that's what the years tell him. He scrapes at it unfeeling, and then, finally, the man speaks.

It may be a confession. It sure sounds like one, though Tim bites at the inside of his cheek to distract himself from chains on the wall and blood and the color green.

He doesn't know what to say. A swashbuckling pirate is a Hollywood fantasy. They were criminals, dastardly and ruthless.

He asks, "Was it cool?"

And rightly seems to want to shrink himself even more.

[jackdawvision]

This gravestone’s done, so Edward retracts his blade for a bit and rubs his hands together, blowing warm air between them to give himself a bit of a rest before he gets started on the next one. Tim’s question gets a quiet little chuckle out of him, full of warmth even if it also sounds tired. It’s been…a very long time, and Edward sometimes feels very old, for forty-two.

It was a good life, all in all, and while he has regrets, many of them, he made the best of things. His newest one now is that he didn’t get to live longer, to train his son properly, to see his daughter married and protected.

“Aye, it was,” he says now. “When it wasn’t harrowing, when I wasn’t the only one left, I liked the adventure, the freedom.” He misses it, sometimes, misses how he felt when he was twenty-two and the world seemed his oyster and all he needed was the Jackdaw and his crew and naught else. Other times he looks back and thinks my god I was a bloody daft git, how did anyone put up with me?

Here and now he says, “I wouldn’t recommend that life, though. Too easy to catch scurvy.”