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

welp congrats, cw: anxieties and death and some very disjointed thinking

[ployboy]

Oh my god, is what Tim wishes he could say. He wants to be seen leaning against his trusty shovel, a biting sarcastic reply ready to volley back to the newest gawker.

Instead he thinks he kinda chokes on his own breath, finds his ribs and chest and clothes constricting when they'd never been an issue before, and he barks out a noise that he guesses is supposed to be a laugh if it weren't so damn cheerless.

(Which, dude, what is even up with that-?)

He does ultimately have to brace the shovel against a marbled stone, and bring his good hand up to twistpushpull at hair that's run wild on his face, having escaped its confines. It's as good excuse as any to blink the bleary dizziness of Gray away from his sight, hiding behind himself as he is. It only takes a second. He's been at the foot of tombstones too many times for one more jab at Poor Tim Drake, Orphan to have any effect. Tim is too distracted by the idea of being promoted Keeper that it's kinda growing on him.

"Maybe I will."

If he hadn't been raised by-- well, Alfred, maybe, he doesn't really know if it counts-- but if he could get away with it, he'd be flipping this man the bird. But Tim could hear Alfred telling him to mind his manners even now. So Tim doesn't flip this man the bird.

His Fuck You is about as predictable. But... productive. Maybe. (He doesn't know. Tim's very starkly looking ahead at snow and more snow and coming to terms that he doesn't know a damn thing, doesn't even know how to breathe because it's so weird to have to--)

He keeps on scraping at ice with his trusty shovel.

poor tim.. truly dealing with so much

[bigbaddy]

It'd be one thing if an adult had told him that. But even though Bigby - of all people, given all his experiences with Fables and he himself being one - knows that looks can be deceiving in this place when it comes to age, this guy.. definitely just looks like a kid.

And that makes that maybe I will only sound kind of petulant. A little sad, too, since the other's reaction doesn't exactly seem to be angry. Or if there's something of anger and annoyance in it, it's not just that. Even Bigby can see as much, which is saying something, considering he's not exactly the best at it.

It's why he can't quite bring himself to just walk on, though it'd be so easy. Though it'd have no consequence, probably. The chance he'll get a teenager trying to lob more insults at him is higher than anything else here, and yet some part of Bigby that can't ignore people who look like they need help guides him a little bit closer, walking towards Tim instead of away from him.

".. look. I get the feeling of wanting to have something to do here, but you don't exactly look like you're having a great time right now."

[ployboy]

He's working hard to swallow his words, or maybe swallow his tongue. The morose air hangs there more clinging to Tim's space than driving a wedge between him and the man. Tim's ears let him know the heavy and deliberate footsteps near, crunching snow under boots. He, mullish and moody and mean, keeps his head low and his gaze steady on the stone square in front of him.

"I wonder why that is," he hums, because letting the man think he has reason is a loss he won't suffer.

"Because it's literally freezing? Because I'm digging up graves with one broken arm? Are you going to tell me the weather forecast? Let me guess- it's going to snow."

--okay, yeah, definitely feeling mean.

[bigbaddy]

"Then stop digging!"

Some people might react in an understanding sort of way. After all, it's not like Tim doesn't have reasons to be this way in a place where they've been dumped in pretty much the most miserable situation imaginable.

And it's not like Bigby isn't understanding, really. It's just that his way of dealing with it is.. well, let's call it a little rough around the edges. A little direct.

Which means, in this case, that he'll move over towards the other, attempting to take the shovel from him.

"Seriously, kid, you think no one else can do this? Go do something that can make you happy even in a shithole like this, I'll dig instead."

lmf bigby.... cw for just general death-iness

[ployboy]

The outburst is what makes Tim snap his head up again, and he's finally not feeling dead inside. So this is good, but not at all what Tim had had on the itinerary. He's a boy more prone to seeing things the way they should be, than the way they are. It's a glaring flaw and one that dissolving moral resolve takes nasty advantage of. But here, shivering against a rogue gust of wind that he's not yet used to, he just glares at the man.

He lets him take the shovel. It's no use to fight something so

stupid.

"What is your pro'lem?!" he shouts.

Actually shouts, and it's like nails on a chalkboard for his ears. Cemeteries are for silence or hushed voices. But Tim's talking over a frog in his throat, and his head's swirling under the murky water in-between Reason and... Comfort.

He swings his (one) arm out wide, effectively gesturing at life the universe and everything. Everything that isn't him.

Him, the undertaker. The gravekeeper.

"If I want to dig my own hole out there, what is your problem with that?"

definitely cw for death talk from here on!

[bigbaddy]

At least the shouting doesn't seem to make Bigby wince, despite the sound echoing over the graveyard. Maybe it's since the man is feeling a touch agitated himself, or maybe he's just used to it. Tim certainly isn't the first person to yell at him, after all. And certainly not even close to the worst. Sorry, kid.

"'cause if you keep on going like this, it's gonna be your hole, alright!"

Implying that Tim will die if he keeps this up. Which would have sounded a little dramatic under regular circumstances, but in this place? Well, it seems so uninhabitable. Just staying outside for long enough feels like it might be enough to make someone drop dead on the spot, especially just a kid.

"You wanna show up here and then just die?"

help me I actually love this....

[ployboy]

Whether it's those macho tempers now flaring at perceived disrespects or two individual attempts to make themselves understood that are wildly missing the mark, Tim doesn't have the patience to entertain it. It's bad enough to be a loony toon in a sacred place of worm-eaten corpses, and the added insult of loud makes Tim feel heat across his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. And that heat has to go somewhere, but he's now lost his steam, lost that energy (steady, rhythmic, steady) he'd put into moving snow from one inch to another. His legs feel weak and his back aches from too much.

He's always preferred too much to too little.

He hisses, "What I want,"

(isn't that laughable)

"is to make this place look like it hasn't been forgotten, because there are people still living around here, and we're no better than they were! There's more important things to do? Fine! I'll do that too, but give--"

Lord, and to think he almost asked for his trusty, rusty shovel back. Tim stops, abrupt, and sighs.

It's not really a sigh, it's more of a hurtful exhale, the kind that's bound to make the back of your ribs feel that pin-prick of a bad move.

A bad move is antagonizing a big dude when one stands at a whopping 5-foot-six, and Tim can even see the man's... point.

But grief was never meant to be rational.

"I'm going to see the names, and I'm going to remember the people who are buried here, and I don't care if the names get buried under snow again by tomorrow morning. Something is better than nothing. Okay?"

It's so weak.

The back-breaking labor and windburn isn't worth the-- platitude. To what? A tradition which Tim doesn't even subscribe to. He, awash with shame at being found... lacking, turns his head from Bigby to look at anywhere but him. (A very doggish gesture, really.) He chews at the inside of his cheek, and decides, "Okay."

He doesn't need help; he can ruin his own life solo. Thanks. Okay.

...okay.

<3! i'm so glad, i'm enjoying it too!

[bigbaddy]

The man exhales.

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!