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][
no subject
At first glance, he wasn't sure what that was. Then he paused to watch for a few moments as some kid slowly cleared snow from one of the plots. He crunched through the snow for a closer look, his curiosity piqued, wondering why someone would waste their energy on such a pointless task.
no subject
For Tim Drake more so than in Red Robin, but the tangle between lives is stubbornly present. Tim pulls up the shovel (named Shovel, because all good swords have names nevermind that this isn't a sword shut up) with a huff; if he talks, he might be able to put more attention on himself than on the action of heaving a gardening tool between himself and Ink Blot.
"If you're going to tell me this is a waste of time, forget it," he grouses. "I've already heard it like five times before lunch and ten times after."
no subject
There was a short pause where the only thing moving was the black blots on his face. Then he went on, again speaking in his oddly truncated way. "Buried number of bodies when I first arrived." There was no real point to giving them a proper burial. After all, it was just a waste of energy and resources that could have gone to a much more productive endeavor. But it had felt wrong to just leave them there frozen in the snow. Rorschach would have wanted someone to the same for him had his body been left in similar circumstances.