ᴛɪᴍᴏᴛʜʏ ᴅʀᴀᴋᴇ ǝuʎɐʍ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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
"Better than a pit full of snakes," he quotes. "I hate snakes."
Then,
"If you're worried, I can fix that for you. Just go out with me."
---
---
--
Wait.
He stares. Then he opens his mouth. Closes it.
Decides, fuck--
"It's not too cold outside. And I know you can kick ass."
Help.
no subject
"Seriously? Snakes are what get you going? Jeez. I'll uh- avoid telling you about some of the things we have back where I'm from then." Giant two headed snakes were something she had to deal with every now and again.
"Getting stuck in a pit would suck though."
...And then she blinks, because WOW, she did not see that coming.
"Wait? Like on a---" Okay. There's a little moment where she almost has it, but it also looks like she's totally baffled and something doesn't quite compute either. She's an awkward duck. Give her a break.
"---I mean yeah. I can definitely kick some butt. I'll watch your back out there. No problem. No problem." Totally natural save, right? Right?
no subject
Because if she says it, then Tim's excused from having errant thoughts.
As fate would have it, they're both now never going to mention this again: adding to an alarming list of moments that Tim will have to swear Ruby to secrecy about. Christ.
"Just give me one more minute to thaw," he continues, because That Never Happened is a language he's fluent in. "Of course, if you're busy I don't want to take you away from..."
no subject
On the bright side jumping into awkward territory was a brief reprieve from the sheer amount of guilt she put on her shoulders for important people she had lost along the way.
Thankfully Tim doesn't press her on the awkward word in the room and she just give long laugh to brush it off. Because while she can brush a topic aside, it doesn't come quite as naturally for her.
"Sure, sure. Take all the time you need." And there's a pause as she looks around before shrugging. "And I mean- it's not like there's a whole lot to do around here anyways. Right?"