ᴛɪᴍᴏᴛʜʏ ᴅʀᴀᴋᴇ ǝuʎɐʍ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ployboy) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2023-11-01 04:20 pm
ployboy) wrote in singillatim2023-11-01 04:20 pm
Entry tags:
the more you suffer the more it shows you really care.
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][
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][
<3! i'm so glad, i'm enjoying it too!
Some of the anger vanishes with it. Even though it wasn't plain anger as much as it was concern in the way that emotion usually tends to escalate for Bigby - one flowing into the other, like a river flowing into the sea. But even though the anger now leaves, the concern doesn't. Bigby can tell - he can see it in everything about the other, really - that this is some sort of.. trauma response. Grief response. Maybe just a response to the lingering shock of being stuck in this place, a town with death hanging all over it, a town in which they have to survive.
"You can't remember them when you're dead."
There's no anger in it this time. It doesn't even sound like Bigby is truly lecturing Tim anymore, really. If anything, there's something a little sad or resigned in what Bigby says.
(He's seen enough death by now too, after all.)
"Listen. How about I bring you back to where you're staying for now, and then you can rest." Because the other sure looks like he needs it. There's something about Tim's figure right now that makes the other look like he's so fragile, like he could collapse at any moment, with just the wrong push or shove. "And then tomorrow you come back, and you can honour the people buried here."
When the other has at least gotten some renewed energy in him. In fact--
"I'll even come help you then, if you need it."
N-Not like Bigby wants to look over the kids in this place to make sure they're alright or anything, though. Don't misunderstand. It's just that it'd be annoying to deal with the aftermath of Tim dying, clearly!