Catchall (Summer)

[ployboy]

Who: Tim Drake, closed starters
What: Tim sees the past, sees the future, and decides he's done feigning acceptance of either
When: July, August
Where: Milton

Content Warnings: July's event warnings go here! Mind the headers in each thread

His birthday's tomorrow- Tim found out the date by accident. He knows he feels something with the reminder but mostly he feels glad he isn't flashing emotions as colors anymore.

Seeing things he could never finds words for was always infuriating.

Comments

K-

[ployboy]

If the days are alluring then the nights are impossible to resist; Tim's stepped out of the General Store and, frankly, can't be sure he'll be back to finish his shift. The green in the air should be terrifying. But it clouds the sun, the damned sun, and Tim can finally step into the summer without feeling... like he's dying.

He swears he isn't being dramatic about it either. It feels good to move, to breathe, to be able to see through the weak twilight with human eyes, making out shapes without the migraines of focus souring the basic acts.

Tim isn't afraid of the green but Tim fears for the winter. He'll need a plan for them, for all of them. A plan to scare or shake or silence the monsters that will no doubt feel so powerful and wild when the sun dies for good. (No, the sun will rest for only a season, Tim reminds himself. Again he doesn't know how he feels at the reminder. It's a weird sensation so at odds with itself, always so at home in his chest.)

The walk is aimless. Tim is alone. He enjoys it, he thinks, and then he spots Kate, and some more green, and he stills. She's coming towards him. Reflexively he turns his head to glance behind himself but there's nothing; it's just them and the evening and the green.

That's scary.

He turns back to her and, reflexively again, he pockets his hands. "Hey. Hey, what's up?"

[castitas]

July is gloomy and green and it fills her with a low-rolling dread that sits permanently in her stomach and a sharp kind of buzzing fear in her chest. It's not like midsummer last year, but it still feels wrong. The kind of feelings that make her want to crawl into her closet or under her bed and hide.

But she's out the house despite herself, even if her footsteps are hurried and her breaths and quick and shallow as she walks down through the main street of town. She has it all planned out: find Tim, give him the letter and get straight back home. No big deal, right? Totally fine.

And she's making a beeline for him as soon as she spots him, breathless when she's close enough — stopping short enough to give enough space between them.

"Hey, um—" she sucks in a breath to calm herself, but she's still out of breath and agitated, uneasy. "I was looking for you, actually. I, uh—"

She's fumbling, reaching for her satchel.

"I need to give you something, and like—" her hands are shaking a little. They're covered this time, at least. Just give him the letter and get back home. She pulls a small, plain envelope. A letter. "If you can maybe not read it until, like— later."

She holds it out for him. Take it. Please.

cw dead animal mentions

[ployboy]

Is something following her? is the first and dominant thought in Tim's head. He loses most of his focus on her the moment she's within reach-- which he's sure isn't correct or proper or anything of that ilk but he scans the silent world around her anyway. It's green, but there's nothing that steals his attention for long. (Which should have been a red flag the same way that Kate having beat up a dead bear was a red flag, but he's blind from the thrill of being able to stand without wanting to collapse to his knees.)

Tim blinks, and he turns to see Kate rummaging through her bag. Soon enough there's a...

"Is this my pink slip?" he asks, dumbfounded around the edges where a nervous smile wants to tug at his lips. He takes the envelope and resists the urge to tear into it. He takes the envelope and resists reaching for her, for her hands.

He misses it, but it's also... the green. There's a lot of it.

And that can't be safe.

In the next moment, Tim's expression shakes off it's human hesitance once more. The envelope goes into an inner pocket of his coat and he stands taller, firmer, in the quiet sick-green snow. There's fog. Voices. The Darkwalker.

Then, a figure emerges from the fog. One that makes Tim... freeze. Shut down. Or boot into overdrive, as he clamps down on everything emotional that tears into his innards like starved, wild dogs. Jack Drake- a man in his fortys, sturdy, hair graying but cropped neat. Green polo shirt. Khakis. In front of a television screen. Jack turns from where he's seated and shoots off a peculiar question-

Anyone shoot at you tonight?

Tim sees... himself, and he looks younger, he thinks, than he does now. This is the him of two... three years ago. The boy creeps uncertainly forward to sit with his dad, his white shirt too large, old jeans, untied sneakers. Dad, please don't worry about--

Indeed.

Tim cuts in front of Kate, nods mechanically to where she came from. Says, "I'll take you back to your place."

[castitas]

"What—? No, I just—" the words fail her, and she shakes her hand gently, urging him to take it. Just read it, later. It's horrendously awkward, only making how she already feels with this tell-tale green gloom in the air ten times worse.

Tim straightens and Kate shrinks. The fog drifts in thicker, and she's distracted by the chittering of voices that it carries. The urge to run is suffocating, but her feet remain planted where they are, heavier than stone. She's too cowed to start openly freaking out, turning her head in horror at the sound of the Darkwalker's voice.

"Oh, God—" breathed out, strained. Oh, God, because what will It do now? Of all times, why does it have to be now?

One way, or another — I am coming for you. I will break you, consume you. You will go into the Dark.

She hears a TV set, and does a double take.

A man she doesn't recognise, appears in the gloom, but looks familiar in a specific way. A boy appears, and this one she instantly recognises, even if he looks a little younger. Kate stares for a long beat, keeps staring even after Tim blocks her view.

"Tim." she wets her lips, swallows thickly. "That's your Dad."

Tim's Dad is dead. She knows that.

cw corpse mention

[ployboy]

That's your Dad and Tim can practically hear the stress of the capital-D. He thought he'd seen and heard enough already, his heart hammering in his chest and throat as Tim reasons that, well, at least he isn't seeing a corpse. A walking decomposing mix of green-purple flesh and stubborn tendons still sticking to reanimated bones. Not this time. That's good. He makes a noise, something strangled and furious, and he has to turn, briefly, back to the scene unfolding around them.

He has to see his Dad.

Just once more.

Tim thinks, hopes, maybe this time--

The TV announces Sue Dibney's death, and Tim doesn't lean into his Dad, he's pulled into him. Tim thinks he's never going to recover from that shock, wonders if Kate can somehow feel that the proximity is as torturous and awkward as it looks to him. He clears his throat,

and reaches for Kate's hand. Because everyone breaks, but if he can get ahead of it and prepare for the fall...

"Kate. We're leaving."

His bedroom is all... boy. It looks like it reeks. There's open books and old clothes on the bed, both at risk of falling and cluttering the already cluttered floor. The window squeaks open, and Robin silently flutters in.

Tim could laugh. God. God, what now.

More at ease than he has any right to be, he pulls at Kate. He wants her to take a step, just one, to start moving because

"You're going to see him die. Or you're going to see him already dead."

Tim has a baggy jersey- #94. He's careful not to go overboard with the concealer, but pressing on the bruising under his eye hurts. He needs to be quiet. Not like Dad would be awake at this hour.

"Let's go."

[castitas]

It feels like a trespass. It she were to put a word to it: trespass. Like she's stumbling into something she's not supposed to see, that she's never supposed to see. These moments are Tim's, not hers. Moments with his father, before he died. She's reminded of when she and Wynonna drank tea and Wynonna saw the Vortex Club party — pulled into the midst of it, watching Nathan press a solo cup of wine into her hand and being unable to stop herself from taking a sip.

He never told her how. She doesn't bat his hand away, lets him take it. And it's enough to make her look at him for a few beats — her eyes are wide—

This is... Tim's room—?

Her throat feels tight, stunned and horrified. He pulls at her hand and she pulls at his right back.

"Go where?" It's not a snap of frustration, but of fear. "This is the Darkwalker, it's not just gonna let us leave. You know that."

Surely he does. The Darkwalker isn't merciful. Isn't kind. It doesn't care about them. If it's brought this upon them, how are they going to get out of it? Totally not by just walking out, that's for sure.

It's so... weird. Looking at him. He's here, holding onto her hand. Trying to pull her away and yet he's right there, too. (Is... that make-up?)

"Why... why did he ask you if anyone shot at you?"

[ployboy]

She pulls him and it's a moment of tug-of-war that lights him on fire and makes him want to shout that they have to try to fight this God damn it. And it's not even because this is private. That never crosses or has crossed Tim's mind-

"--elbowed me in the face," Tim explains lamely, and Jack knows that's a lie. Tim is hunched over, unsure, always so unsteady around his dad. Jack looks at his son and doesn't call out the lie, just brushes his hand over the makeup and smiles sadly. "How 'bout I get you some ice?" Jack offers, heaving to stand.

MURDER AMONG HEROES. Superman is on TV. Ralph is weeping, inconsolable, the poor, poor man--

There's going to be no escaping this, and Tim wonders if he should be so relieved that Kate is... "Sometimes I'd get shot at," he shrugs.

His back teeth hurt, he's going to rack up a fat bill at the dentist from grinding them. He's holding himself miserably, having followed his dad to the kitchen but not daring intrude into the space; Jack is bracing himself against the sink, head bowed, miserable.

Father and son.

What a happy, flattering--

And he misses it so much. "Kate, it's going to be bloody," he urges, and feels his hair stand on end. He won't pull at her hand again, but he's holding on as he steps... back. "Walk with me."

Please.

(That letter she penned him. It says she never wanted to see him again, huh?)

Robin is buttoning up the cloak, the cape, its collar high and stiff. It's night. The window (large, old), open. "Dad, please..." he groans, tired, irritated.

B-

[ployboy]

There's something weird about living under Bruce's roof now that Dick's here, too. Tim could conjure up memories of Bane and the Bat and his brother having to step into the mantle afterwards but, One, Bruce wasn't really with them then and Two, the idea of Bane now opens up the memory that was never his to witness. It feels more like a wound than a memory, one that will never even begin to heal. Because Alfred...

Anyway.

The gas station feels cramped.

Then there's green in the air and the first time that Tim sees it he stills. Like a rabbit sensing the wolf upon it. He makes it a point to warn... his dad, his brother: "That means the Darkwalker is going to show itself."

But even Milton likes to turn Tim into a veritable liar.

The Darkwalker doesn't laugh. It doesn't leave mangled corpses for them to find, faces frozen in terror. It doesn't even make Tim flinch, doesn't make his voice waver; instead Tim bravely pokes his head outside. And then, gesturing for Lily to stay, he ventures out where it's murky. Like a wolf sensing a scared rabbit, defenseless and out there somewhere, Tim moves through the town. There is a lot of fear in the air. (It's thrilling.)

(That's... bad.)

B is tailing him, and Tim's not sure when that happened. He's ready to be turned a liar again, gesturing to... fog, distant but rolling in, inescapable. (Except, now, for the first time because of the green, Tim feels dread in his excitement.) 

"See, I told you." he snipes, unsatisfied with being proved right just as the hissing of many voices, anxious, surround the grave tone of their Patron Saint of Bullshit and Misery: S̵h̵e̶ ̶b̷i̷n̸d̸s̶ ̵m̴e̶.̶

[shoving]

There is something strange about sharing his space with other people. They are strangers, quiet little intrusions on the routine Bruce has managed to put together here. He doesn't mind. Not as much as he thought he would anyway. Even if the loneliness had been easier in a way. Familiar. Safe.

Getting to know Tim and Dick never really felt like a chore, since they were halfway to knowing him anyway. All he had to do was meet them in the middle. And in those moments he did mind, Bruce knew how to withdraw and be alone so he could regroup.

When the air turns a sickly shade of green, Bruce is set on a finer edge. He'd never cared for the color. He'd seen it too many times laughing at him. Tim warns him that it means the Darkwalker is coming and Bruce thinks Finally. He isn't afraid of it. Maybe he should be.

But he isn't.

He isn't afraid, as much as he's concerned about Tim and how restless he feels when the world turns dark and it doesn't feel so oppressive to be outside anymore. Bruce follows Tim. He's concerned.

Bruce's steps are quiet after years of practice and if he ever doubted Tim's been trained by him (or someone with his face), catching him in the act dispels it.

“I believed you, Tim.”

[ployboy]

Nothing has happened and there's already a frog in his throat. Tim swallows around it, resigned to a specific kind of harshness in his voice every. freaking. time. he has to speak to Bruce, apparently. (Because how long did he go wishing upon a star to be believed in the face of death and endlessness-?) Tim gestures, stoic, to the changing space ahead.

He steps back, to step closer to his dad. He says, "I don't get it. When the Darkwalker comes around, it shows itself. It kills. It leaves."

And it's a blow to his every nerve that now, years later, it just decides-- to not. Tim doesn't press further into Bruce's space. But then... there. Within the green:

Wayne Manor. The grand stairwell. A fight. Bruce Wayne- older, not old- with blood and bruises on his face,on the flight of stairs. He faces Batman. Batman holds the gun that killed Thomas and Martha Wayne and Bruce is disgusted-- "Oh my god, no." "Shame on you, Timoth-"

BLAMM

"No."

No, no-

Bruce, bleeding, down.

Then it's-- no longer the manor.

Superman, the Fortress of Solitude.

Superman has Batman by the throat, and Batman is... firing his gun. BLAMM BLAMMBLAMMBLAMM BLAMMBLAMM BL Tim, gagging as he brings up a hand to cover his mouth, has the presence of mind not to... giggle.

(But the battered betrayal of amusement bleeding at his cheeky words is undeniable.)

"O-okay, cool, when I said the Darkwalker kills people I meant literally. Not 'on the inside'."

Batman.

Why is he always Batman.

A fight. Batman goes toe to toe with Superman. Batman controls modified Kryptonian battle armor. And through a sympathetic wince as the older Tim is thrown like a rag doll regardless, Tim can see it: he's doesn't just control the armor. He controls Clark's emotions. He controls the field, commands it. Superman leaves a heaving, weary Batman in the snow. Satisfied, the alien steps back once... only to be encased in a pod of red Kryptonite... weakening...

--wait.

"That's dangerous," he hurries to point out because-- Tim doesn't get it. This is different. What--

So of course Batman, the big damn hero tells his prisoner,

"I need to kill Superboy."

Which by all means, should be shocking. (It isn't.)

[shoving]

It feels wrong. Upside down and sideways and askew in a way that gives Bruce a headache if he looks for too long. It's dull, but persistent, right behind his eyes. The scene unfolds and Bruce doesn't look away. He's grounded enough to realize Tim is stepping in close. Grounded enough to close the distance a little bit more. He could reach out and touch Tim if he wanted to.

His eyes are drawn to the gun. The ominous piece of metal in Batman's hand. He follows it until it fires and the flash and heat and spray of bullets feel like they cut into him and not the illusion in front of him.

He doesn't flinch.

The scene changes and Bruce stays close to Tim. The headache spreads and it feels like his skull might split open from the pressure, but he doesn't flinch.

He just watches with grim, resolute silence. Jaw so tight, he thinks it might crack his teeth.

The gun fires again. Bruce doesn't flinch. Tim covers his mouth, Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder. But he watches the fight in silence and he can't stop that creeping sense of deja vu as Superman and Batman battle it out. It slithers inside of him like something dark and foreboding. Like this could be his future too.

"What is this, Tim?"

It's dying. A quiet and slow and agonizing death. But he wants to hear Tim say it.

pops back in here w attempted murder of a kiddo

[ployboy]

What is this? Something that he can't outrun or- worse- can't outfox. Tim seems to realize his error in wanting to lean on Bruce and he's damn near shaking even with Bruce's hand on his shoulder. The last bit of rational thought tells him that's unfair; and also, therapy might be nice. What is this? Tim's excuse to shake his head, lips unmoving because he can't bear to say I don't know. Like that's the one lie that Tim can't bear to hear himself say.

Batman, unfortunately, answers for him. "It's a definite future. And it's one I have to fight to stop!"

He's in the Teen Titan's monitor room- broadcast through the screens. His hand is... glitching out of existence. Hypertime shows its presence as unfeeling, marauding tendrils of a color that should be black but instead is Nothing. And Tim hates how much it makes sense. Hates how everything is so circular, cyclical. His eyes, blue and wide and sorry, dart sidelong to Bruce. Because, of course, a hefty part of this equation is: ...Bruce + Time.

The kid can't be more than 12! That's Superboy-!? He's not even a teen, and this isn't the Tween Titans-- that's a child in torn blue jeans, sneakers, looking just like Clark and Lois and... oh. Oh, no.

The tar is enveloping Superboy and the kid is crying out- It's in my eyes! I can't see! Damian!!"

No wonder Damian hates his ass.

Raven hisses, "Get it off of him, Tim" and of course Tim responds an unfeeling, "No." Always so eloquent.

Always so eloquent, Tim musters the obvious- "That's a kid."

Not Kon. But Superboy all the same.

He's going to kill a kid.

(And Bruce is going to hate him. And that's not fair-!)

Superboy is young. Too young. It's too much.

Tarry and black Nothing eats and bites and swarms him like a pack of dogs swarm meat. But the kid is red, red, hot, burning-- has a Kryptonian pedigree that can't be defeated by simple human scheming. Jon Kent is time bomb, screaming- terrified and wild. Robin- Damian Wayne- knows the truth too. He observes and gives the only logical option: "Get out of here Jon! Fly with everything you've got or you're going to kill us all!"

Kryptonians can't be defeated by simple human scheming.

Their undoing has to be by their own hand.

Glowing red, violent like lava oozing out of the Earth, Superboy takes flight.

[shoving]

The people, the names mean very little to Bruce. And it makes him realize how isolated he's truly been all this time. How cut off from the rest of the world he's been. How alone he's been. It's...sobering.

The tremor he can feel in Tim's shoulder tells a different story. It's his memory, of course seeing it play out so vividly would effect him. Bruce doesn't know what to do with himself, doesn't know how to comfort or reassure. He's not had to in years and years. But he squeezes gently anyway, an anchor if Tim wants it to be. Grounding if Tim needs it to be.

He can feel Tim's eyes on him, but he stays focused on the memory. Absorbing the details, the people in it. How easily this could be his future or past or some kind of sideways present.

"A Kryptonian."

He's cold when he says it. Because the only Kryptonian he knows is a monster? An enemy. An obstacle that needed to be destroyed. He's not a man. He doesn't have children that he loves. He's not tender enough for it. There's only destruction that follows him, not children. Or kindness or family.

Bruce doesn't hate Tim. He hates himself. Because Milton is once again shoving it in his face. He's wrong. He's wrong as shit.

Finally, finally, he grips Tim's shoulder to turn him so he has to look at Bruce. "Tim, what is this?"

D-

[ployboy]

"So there's this girl, right?"

Which isn't the first thing Tim had planned to blurt out after having had his soul torn asunder just thirty or so minutes ago, but somehow it seems like the safest thing to touch on. And Tim is... a lot of things. Smart, yes. Wise, no. Cunning. Resilient. Safe...? Tim can remember terror and blood in the underground of Wayne manor. In San Francisco. In the hallway of Grieve Memorial High. In his father's brownstone that he's only just stepped away from, leaving its bloodied stench behind in the white snow.

But he's now holding- waving mechanically back and forth between himself and the doorframe to the office of the gas station that is Tim's bedroom- a neatly folded paper, a letter. This is as safe as Tim can make words from his mouth sound, and as safe as he will will himself to believe he is by virtue of rote familiarity.

It doesn't escape him (blinking silent pleas to Dick Grayson to play along for God's sake just play along please) that for him, safety has just become synonymous with Kate. Punching his face in be damned. He even got a small, cool scar out of it now that the lip's healed. Finally. Anyway. Anyway-

Tim stands there, the flush not making it to his ears or cheeks just yet, but the listlessness makes him tuck an overgrown lock of hair back behind his ear regardless. He is so overwhelmingly self-conscious and it's either the panic or the puppy love or both; he wants to crawl back into his nest and curl himself around Laelaps and just not wake up, not for a long while. (But that would be selfish.)

Maybe this is selfish too. And he can't just force-- stolen time, something ridiculous in the face of their new reality, on the man (even if he suspects he already has, with an unspoken shame in his eyes that his brother knows, the one that comes on when there's nothing safe from their failures) so Tim clears his throat. Awkwardly.

And finally, embarrassed, he adds, "I mean. I don't know. Sorry. Are you busy?"

Because he wants... to talk.

i am so sorry this took forever and a half

[aerobat]

So there's this girl isn't - well. At least this isn't a my girlfriend is pregnant conversation. Dick could always be two seconds away from falling face-first onto the ground because Tim finding entirely unexpected topics to bring up out of nowhere is very Timmish of him. This is fine.

And even better: Dick has his hands pressed to Bitewing's cheeks, pushing up the fluff of his face as before Tim had deciding to interrupt, he had been cooing quietly at the pup in the otherwise silent gas station. It's the paper waving back and forth that has him releasing the dog after ruffling his fur, eyes tracking it as Tim waves it hazardously and Dick's - raising a brow. Watching his little brother. It isn't that this is unexpected behavior - no, the predictability of it almost makes him feel a little better because everything has been off, but this is notably very Tim-like. At least some things never change.

"I'm not busy, no." He might have teased Tim for how anxious he seems about bringing it up to him, but given the amount of time he's been here mostly on his own, how behind Dick feels, he opts to save that for - later. Much later. Instead, he holds out a hand toward the letter. If Tim chooses not to hand it over, that's fine, too - but given he'd brought it out while bringing this up to him, Dick assumes he has some desire to share it's contents. "So, a girl?"

F-

[ployboy]

The days are getting drastically shorter, and Tim spends far too long battling with the fact that: this is what he always wanted, right? A new lease on life. A reconciliation with having turned, by choice, into a creature the night.

He hadn't expected it to be so literal.

A night owl, and now he can't even consider himself a kid in any sense. (Because he's nineteen, and nineteen is old.) He keeps his head down and his pie hole shut, mostly, after the green fog and the Milton House fire. For the first time in a long time, the silence isn't a kind of punishment or stupid act-- Tim can be quite a serious thing, and especially so when he is just himself.

Today, tonight, Laelaps accompanies him. A white wolfdog, piebald- gray fur splashes at her head and hip. She's smaller than her littermates. That's never hindered her. Inside the old residence, broken by the quake, she's the one who alerts Tim to the other person. Whoever they are, they're suspiciously quiet.

And Tim is cursed with curiosity.

Into the old bedroom he goes, blinking through the dark.

--oh. It's that guy.

"Uh," Tim greets, always eloquent. "Hey. Looking for something?"

[faa]

[ Togo had followed his new master into the abandoned house, like he follows him everywhere—on account of Freddie having fashioned a collar and leash for the wolfdog out of some scavenged rope. (To his credit, though, it's not like Freddie ever has to drag him. It's more about keeping him from pulling on the lead, or whatever the next step up from pulling is, e.g., throwing his entire bodyweight into the lead like a sled dog in a harness. Which... in fairness... he was bred to do. )

A collar and lead, and one of the only dogs here on a collar and lead, because while Freddie doesn't know much about dogs, or any animal, really, on account of never having been allowed to have one—but for some reason, an isolated little line of text from the page on Siberian Huskies in the giant dog breed encyclopedia he frequently checked out at the school library in the interest of presenting what he felt was convincing information to each parent still stands out in his 33-year-old mind: huskies are bred to run and inclined to roam great distances, and as such, should never be let off-leash.

Togo isn't a husky, despite being named after one, but he pretty much looks like one to Freddie's uneducated eye: just much bigger. He was told the dog was the largest in his litter, back when he was still being referred to as Brock—a name Freddie, a 1992 model who spent more time watching television than a developing child probably should have, couldn't exactly take seriously. Balto was cliche and the stupidest and probably most overused name you could give a wolfdog. But Togo was nice. A nod to their capacity for bravery and heroism. Togo felt right.

He doesn't look like the now-taxidermied sled dog, though, or Balto. He seems to have mostly just gotten his enormous size from the wolf side of his family tree; everything else looks pretty domesticated, and the inbred urge to pull is very obviously more than alive and well. He generally just like a really big malamute, not that they were small to begin with, and the blanket on his back and head and tail is golden-red like it can be on them, albeit such a light color it's almost more lemony. Freddie would have accepted the smallest, weakest, ugliest dog in the world, truth be told, but Togo is quite handsome. He looks like something out of a Disney movie, like if Homeward Bound had a malamute in it instead of a golden retriever.

He's also very alert, very useful—and the minute the door opens on the other side of the dilapidated cabin, he raises the alarm and starts barking, tail curled like a sickle over his back, the golden guard hairs between his shoulderblades raising. Freddie turns around abruptly, pausing in rummaging through the kitchen drawer—and then his shoulders relax. It's just the kid he saw in the bathroom of the community center the night he came here. A nice guy. And it looks like he has one of Togo's littermates with him, given that there's not really anywhere else to get a dog here and Togo's gone from standoffish to licking his lips and wagging his tail. ]

Hey. Nothing in particular, just... Anything people might have left behind. Toothpaste, floss, baking soda, medicine, laundry soap... The things they don't show people having to go out and find in the zombie movies. You? If you want something specific I might know where to find it. I've been through about half of this place.

[ployboy]

"What's toothpaste?" Tim rattles off his tongue in dry acknowledgment, eyes on the man first to lay his overt suspicion to rest and then they flick to the pup. He thinks it looks like one of the Constable's. He also thinks Thank God for the leash- Tim's stepped bodily in front of Laelaps.

Unlike her brother, she's quiet, still. Intense. Golden eyes unblinking, head low, tail upright as she postures. Honestly- she's kind of a bitch. Tim's glad he's managed to learn that much about her. He has a handful of her ruff, lost because he doesn't know how to handle her, actually, and somewhere between lamely and embarrassed Tim explains,

"She's okay! She'll be fine. She's just not super friendly all the time," he excuses. Thinks- well that wasn't reassuring. "But she's met some of her siblings before. She'll calm down soon. I'll keep her over here."

With Merry, with Bitewing, she's content to be Top Dog. What'll happen when there's a clash of personality-? So Tim decides: okay, so... he'll make a collar. He'll get handy with the paracord. Rig something up.

But back to the human problems of survival, "We still have some laundry detergent at the General Store," he offers. "You'll have to buy it. Or trade for it, I guess. The owner set up a trade route with the coast city- did you hear about that?"

[faa]

[ Buy it—? With what, exactly, is anyone buying anything here? The idea of a store at all is sort of bizarre to think about, and also doesn't quite sit right with him—how would that come to be, other than the strongest or most opportunistic parties quickly sourcing precious goods and then sitting on them to control distribution? He's hardly a communist, but they should at least... earn them or something. ]

I didn't, actually. I'm still pretty new.

[ Togo is still straining against his makeshift lead, and he's strong. Freddie doesn't know much about dogs—barely anything at all, really—but he's pretty sure that the tension the other dog is holding is pretty universally understood. The kid's also got nothing to 'keep her over here' with, and Freddie's not so sure that he'd have the upper body strength to do so even if he did—he's got a lot more weight behind him than Tim does, and even his arm is getting tired. This situation isn't inspiring confidence, and it's making him wonder why anyone would ever take their dog to a public dog park, because it's making him stressed by extension, even if his own canine companion does not seem to have registered the shift in tone.

Freddie takes a step back, giving the leash some pulsing tugs, and momentarily addresses the dog at his side as his enormous paws scramble backwards as asked of them, albeit clumsily— ]

I don't think she wants to play with you right now, buddy.

K-

[ployboy]

There's a whole... debate. On what to do the night he saw Dad die, with Kate's letter in his pocket, after she reminds him: he's not supposed to be seen with her, not near her home, especially not with her looking haunted, frightened despite her brave front. There's a whole... deal Tim had to figure out after she walked herself the rest of the way home. Because his eyes were tired and red-rimmed, and Bruce couldn't see him like that. And so he couldn't go anywhere, not for a while.

Eventually he spoke with his brother.

His brother's gone now.

But before that, Tim had read the... letter. The note Kate had handed him before he'd smelled the copperish smell of his father's blood. (Again.) Reading that letter had been the scariest thing he'd had to face in... if not months, years. (Tim Drake and sincerity don't often cross paths, the tone indescribable to him because his heart hammered in cold anxiety as he waited... waited... read, and waited for the inevitable that never came.)

('I'll see you around' Kate had promised with a smile.)

So Tim had to believe it would all be okay.

He doesn't know why he's brought Lily. Emotional support? But Lily is wearing a sturdy, hunter-green belt of a collar (and because Tim is Tim, he sharpie'd red stylized flowers on the webbing for the proud, feminine little thing). He's left his backpack behind, his coat today clear of debris or tears- tidy, just how the rest of him is tidy. He's already been taken to task, he doesn't need it to happen again for dressing as a slob as he

knocks against the front door to the cabin: 41 Mackenzie Street.

Tim waits in the twilight. He needs to talk with Kate.

[castitas]

It was probably a little too soon to have him walking right to the door, especially after Lieutenant Irving's reaction. As much as she expected the man to be scandalised on account of Victorian, it was still— a whole thing. Sure, at least he'd come round in the end and suggested the letter in the first place — there's the whole almost-killing-pretty-much-attempted killing of his friend and senior officer.

So. Yeah. Maybe a little too soon. But maybe Tim would finally get it in the letter.

And all she could do is wait, frowning at the window a little too hard at the absence of pebbles. It's nerve-wracking: just dumping all your feelings in word-form to a teenage boy.

Before there's even the sound of footsteps to the door, there's a low and soft awroooo that can be heard if he listens hard enough. Merry, who's peering round Kate's legs as she answers the doors — instantly jumping into his 'tappy feet' and wagging tail at the visitors.

Kate stares in open surprise: he's using the front door. For once. She's a deer in the headlights for a beat or two, because even though she's expected— no, hoped he might come around eventually — he's suddenly here and she's all internally flustered and well what happens now?

"Tim, hey—" she's all shy and—

Merry's excited to see his sister, all soft ears and still doing tappy feet. Kate's eyes lower: oh, sweet distraction.

"Hey, Lily-girl—" she's crouching down, hands out for pets. "Look at you in your new collar, looking so pretty—"

She's not stalling, absolutely not.

[ployboy]

He can't help it- Tim sports a lopsided smile, dopey and equal parts smug because he caught her unaware with the surprise. Surprise: he doesn't, actually, turn into a puddle when forced to confront a door. The smile tempers itself into something warmer but hesitant as Kate fusses over Lily. Lily is even wagging her tail- the soothing tones and cooing foreign to her unless she's around the girl.

"She was getting kind of, uh- moody," Tim explains. About the collar. Because even standing there kind of stiffly in the threshold and with no way out of the situation he's created, he's more than willing to stall. To dance around the inevitable. With a hand, he gestures to the big pup's collar. "One of her brothers wanted to just say hi and then I had to really hold her back. It was kind of a mess."

Maybe that's to be expected when you take an animal away from the concept of Family when they're young. They just view the others as friends. And friends are always optional.

Embarrassed by the intrusive insight, Tim clears throat. "Can I- can we come in? Pinky promise we'll behave."

[castitas]

"Oh, ouch." she tuts softly, frowning. "Got all up in your business, huh?"

Yes, she's still talking to the dog. Because it's something to distract her from the fact that Tim is right here. Even thought she specifically say for him to come find her after the... yeah. But there's only so much fussing she can do and she knows she'll need to stand up again and find herself eye-level with him.

She swallows down the nervousness and finally relents. Still shy and fidgeting a little.

"Uh, yeah— sure. Of course." There's a long beat, awkward and she steps back to let him in. Merry walking back to clear the way, but he's still gently excited because now his sister is going to be inside the house and this is awesome news.

"Lieutenant Irving's out right now, so like— because he'd— he'd probably wanna like, chaperone or something anyways." She flushes a little. Telling him was one thing but like... the Lieutenant actually being here right now would be a little Too Much.

"Um, can I—" It's awkward, and she's flustered, a bundle of nerves. "Can I get you anything, or—?"

[ployboy]

He steps in and expects to find someone's glare when he peels his eyes away from Kate and Laelaps and they turn to the inside of cabin. If not a glare then an unveiled look of surprise from one of the others who live here. As if Kate hasn't been the person at the forefront of his thoughts (and actions-? is that true or just something he's telling himself?) since the day he fumbled helping out in the kitchen.

There's no one else here to judge him. For now. Tim, with relief, brings his sights and hand down to greet Merry.

He clears his throat (again?) and offers, "Right. Mr. Irving. We met."

The promise of getting down to business has robbed his voice of any inflection; Tim gives Kate a silent apology for it. He literally just said he'd behave. But it's not like he'd done it on purpose. He's nervous and-- and what if he experiments with... no second guessing...

He starts to step out of his boots, not wanting to track ice through somewhere... personal, tidy, warm. Somewhere where he's a guest.

"Is there tea? Lily and I were taking a walk. I didn't want to lose my nerve. But I am kinda cold. Uh. Do we need to stay, like, in the living room? To talk?"

[castitas]

Merry's pleased by the fussing, and he'll take a couple of moments to enjoy it before he'll be turning his attention to his sister — all relaxed and soft eyes. Kate closes te front door behind them watching for a moment, her eyebrows raising.

Tim's met Lieutenant Irving.

There's a brief moment of looking spooked, even with Tim's lack of inflection because oh God, how did that even go — and — when did that happen. Because if it was before or after Kate had told him about Tim then — oh, boy. But he's asking about tea and she's just going to throw her attention into that.

"Yeah, sure." she's already heading for the kitchen to bring the kettle to the fire. Of course there's tea, especially in this household. "I've got like normal tea, or herbal stuff. Or there's even my rosehip tea, if you want that."

She's rabbiting a little, pausing only briefly to open and close her mouth a few times to talk.

"I mean— it'd avoid anything awkward if Lieutenant Irving came home. Since you know. Victorian." And they were upstairs. Alone. Heaven forbid. "Or you having to climb out the window."

There's another brief pause and her head dips a little, and she fights back the smile that curls at the corners of her mouth.

"I'd guess it's probably considered polite, for having company."

She's not really gotten that far with Lieutenant Irving yet. Boundaries around guests, when the guest is Tim. She's absolutely not told him about the amount of time he's snuck into her room. Nope. Not once.