sixthiterationlogs | young, dumb, & broke

Entry tags:

young, dumb, & broke

WHO: Tim Drake and (---)
WHERE: Fountain Park, nowhere and everywhere
WHEN: August 28, and surrounding days
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: N/A but will warn in threads

Arrival (South Village) : Fountain
[He coughs, and he wakes up.

He wakes up because, when he coughs, there's water rushing down his throat and up his nose and into his lungs. It's not the most pleasant way to wake up after an exhausting night's work. Thankfully (for some given value), it isn't the least pleasant way to wake up, either. Not in Tim's mind. So his throat burns and his eyes have trouble adjusting to the blur of being underwater (fresh water), and it's taking a hell of a lot of control to not give in to the urge to let the coughing fit take over and instead suppress it (Tim's pretty sure he's either beet red or splotching blue at this point). He listens to training, though, and refuses to drown before he at knows what the hell's happened; he's climbing over the lip of the pool (no, fountain) in no time at all, just kind of hanging there for a moment as his eyes adjust again to the surface.

No... immediate threat, that he can process. And still, he's got goosebumps of sorts. The backpack (waterproof-- weird) is ditched and Tim sucks in a breath before submerging himself in the water again. He dives purposefully to the bottom of the fountain-- it's all solid underneath. He pushes, what bit he can. And gives up for today because he's wearing clothes he hadn't been wearing before and that's weird and the next time Tim surfaces, brows pinched in frustration and tiredness (he couldn't even get one full night's sleep)] _{Damn it...} [he sees a-- person. You. Close by. He swings out of the fountain and prays that backpack he's slung onto his shoulders has a towel but first:] You don't look surprised to see me climb out of that thing. [Game: start.]

Arrival (South Village) : Police Station
[He's fresh from the fountain, but his navy blue shirt is hanging from where he'd tied it on a strap of his pack (for easier drying) and he's left in the tank top. It's uncomfortably moist and clings to his skin and Tim wants nothing more than to find a dryer, for heaven's sake-- but that seems like less and less of an attainable fantasy with every block of this town he passes. He's a tourist.

He takes in the sights.

And then he maps out his first destination: coming up this street is what looks undeniably like a police precinct. He makes a beeline for it. There should be records, files, computers, something familiar--

and then he is, not for the first time, so horribly let down.] People keep animals here? [Speaking to himself: check. Stating the fucking obvious: check. Tim steps... almost gingerly through the place anyway, because something has to have been salvaged, right? --god, it's obvious the boy very much wasn't raised on a farm.]

Settling In (South Village) : Inn & Housing & Boathouse
[He'll be around, trying to keep his head relatively low and (amazingly) keeping the exploration to a minimum until he understands this whole... bullshit a little bit better. But Tim isn't keeping still, isn't holing himself up, not really. He knows there's hubbub of something odd, something very uncommon going around. Three cheers for gossip and the habit to eavesdrop. He spends the next few days scouring houses that seem unoccupied, venturing into the Inn during its busier hours just to kind of... hang, and maybe ask questions when someone looks like they definitely know what they're doing.

Occasionally he makes trips to the boathouse, because he doesn't sleep (you can't prove that he does, anyway).

Here is the wildcard option.]

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The watches are the only tech here that's past early 20th century.

[ This place she can talk about. It's impersonal, and all of the bad is so much less than she had before that it doesn't even begin to bother her.

She hands him a bowl and spoon and heads back out to the lobby, grabbing a dining chair on the way so they can sit close to the fire. ]

I've got a couple. Think you could fit into this one?

[ She uses her free hand to tug at her scrub top. It's the least fitted clothing item she has, apart from the overalls.

Of course, that reminds her- ]

Didn't you have a backpack when you arrived? There should be dry clothes in there.

[There goes his fantasy of an in-unit washer/dryer set-up. He pulls a face. Can't be sure he isn't pouting at the news that he has no toys, that maybe tiptoeing through barns is going to be a more necessary skill than he'd thought.

He doesn't believe the theory, but he'll accept that it's all that's been found.]

I-- [To his credit, he doesn't blush; that'd be hypocritical overkill, but Tim has the tell-tale deer-in-headlight startle as Steph moves a hand to her top. Of course, there's a shirt underneath and she doesn't remove it but

Um.] Uh. Yeah, but I accidentally knocked it back into the water when I went back in. [Waterproofing meant nothing with a zipper open. Who knew. It was hanging back at the... you know what, she didn't need to know. Tim considers their sizes, wants to go back in time and take back his dumb request.

Practicality wins out.] Maybe? I'll try not to stretch it out. [He doesn't want to get walked in on, with Tim Drake Wayne's body a mess of new and old scars and raised skin. Gothamites are among them.] It'll be quick, Steph, I just really hate how this tank feels so cold.

[ She actually snorts a laugh at the image of him knocking an open backpack into a fountain. He wasn't usually that clumsy.

She glances around the room before pulling off the shirt, revealing the plain white tank-top underneath. She needs something between her skin and the staff slung over her back, after all, if she wanted to keep it hidden. She grabs the thing and its makeshift holster off before handing him the shirt, and hides it under her butt when she sits down.

Naturally she only remembers after the fact that the tank displays all of her scars, still new and puffy despite the mysterious healing she got before arriving. Trying to hide so much from so many people, those slipped through the cracks. There are so many more than she's ever had before. She looks away and does her best to move further away from him without seeming to. Hopefully he'll think she's just getting comfortable in her chair. ]

Don't worry about it. It's my least favorite top anyway. I hate being so monochrome all the time.

Steph.

[That's alarm, or maybe a warning, though Tim doesn't know who it would hypothetically be aimed at. He's holding onto the bowl and he'd thought to turn his head as she pulled the scrub top off. Habits, and all. He'd still caught something unsettling in his peripheral and he'd given up the pretense of offering her privacy.

He felt cold all over; that was normal, right? It wasn't anything he'd never experienced before, the way he can't will himself to look away, the way his heart seized in his chest, the dull numbness of futility.

He takes her shirt. Black. Her scars were fresh. Once upon a time he remembered they weren't so heavy on her body. The nostalgia dies, just kind of disappears.

Tim Drake hates himself, but he goes on.] Steph, what happened? [The scars could have been gotten here in the settlement and

what bullshit. He hates himself and it's familiar, and he welcomes it even if his voice gets stern in lieu of hysteric because she's making jokes about this?]

[ She doesn't look at him. She can't. She's terrified of what she might see in his face.

She wills herself not to start shaking, but it's not an easy battle. It takes her longer than is polite to come up with an answer. What is she supposed to say? "I died"? "Black Mask happened"? "More like what didn't happen amiright"? ]

I... was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

[She's going to bull him but he already knows the answer but it infuriates him all the same because hasn't he had enough of that? Of caring and then not being able to, because everyone but him decides it's all for the better, because God works in mysterious ways, because there's too many damn mistakes and not enough

she doesn't. She was. He mouths something to her or at her and it's like he's back in those-- days. Jesus. Had it really just been a handful of days? And he'd been running on empty, but always just running, except to where he should have and his dad

his dad

and] Okay.

[Not "okay", not ever okay, and the swirl of rage is almost enough to knock the wind out of him. He stares at the floor, because the fire is... too much (it's so stupid, Drake, get your shit together). It hurts to breathe, because he feels hot behind the eyes and he has, simultaneously, no right and every right to it. "I'm sorry"? What kind of moron would

he presses a hand to his face, heel to the bridge of his nose, and grits his teeth against saying something that could possibly make this reaction any worse.] That was a few years ago. [Near-monotone again, because despite the surge of hate in him he can't be anything but detached. He states a fact. And he's sorry. And he hates not being quite human anymore.]

[ She closes her eyes and tries to breath. It isn't easy. Her hands clench tight around her soup bowl, all but forgotten in her lap.

Years ago. She was right. She was right, and he knows, and her being here and alive only complicates things for him. She wishes she could run again, but this time in a straight line, all the way across the island to god knows where, not stopping until she was too tired to move. Now she does start to shake, and focuses her energy instead on the effort not to cry.

She forces the words out, hating the weakness and fear in her voice. ]

Do you... know how it happened? Why it happened?

[He sets his own bowl of hot soup on the floor, under his chair. It gives him an excuse to fidget, to move, to feel like he has some chance of scratching that burning itch under his skin. The movement is robotic and it seems to Tim like he could almost watch himself do it, because when he reclines on the chair again and runs a hand absently through Steph's black top, he's pretty sure he can't feel anything.

It's like he has one of those bone-chilling, aching cold fits that accompany high, delirious fevers. He knows that's not the case. But it feels like it. And he remembers the feeling, because it hasn't let him sleep for the past years.

He wonders who's the biggest flight risk: Stephanie or himself. But he's always been a coward when it came to

this.

He stretches his hand out, holding the shirt back to Steph. He can deal with cold. He's spent a lifetime learning how to move despite being frozen by horror.

He should have been there for her. Instead he was with his dad. (Should he even feel guilty about that? About choosing relationship that never could have amounted to anything, instead of the one that never did?)] I don't think it's fair to actually say.

[He wants to avoid her, but stupid self has his eyes locked on her face. They're blank. His eyes are blank. He's-- learned how to do that, too. It's better than giving in to the horror, even if he just sounds-- cold.] Considering I may know more than you do. [No wonder she fucking left.]

[ She opens her eyes again when she hears him move, turning just enough to see the motion without having to see his face. She stares at the shirt for a long while, unable to make herself move. She's standing on a razor's edge, and she can feel it moving under her but she still doesn't know which way she'll fall.

It would be easier if he just came out and said it. 'It was your fault, and I can't forgive you, and we shouldn't talk.' Tumbling into that bottomless pit would be better than this... anticipation.

Finally she reaches to take the shirt back with hands that shake. She leaves it clutched in one hand on her knee, staring at the fabric and willing her brain to work faster. It's been too long since she said something, too long to be anything but awkward torture.

She opens her mouth to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a squeak. She closes it, swallows, and tries again. ]

I'm sorry.

[ It comes out as a whisper. Now she does start to cry, and she's learned from experience that once it starts there's not really anything she can do to make it stop. ]

I'm sorry. I-- Nobody was supposed to get hurt.

[ It's too much. She can't break down in front of Tim, not about this. Not with him sounding so cold. Her body starts to function again as she gets to her feet, setting the bowl of stew down in her chair and picking up the staff. When she speaks again her voice is at least a little stronger, though she's turned all the way away from him. ]

There's nothing I can tell you about this place you couldn't hear from someone else. I'll stop bothering you.

[What? No, no he hadn't meant for her to

but of course she would, because he's a jackass, and won't somebody please explain to him when, exactly, he got worse than Bruce? At being normal? At being anything other than a robot who sees suspicion and lies and fault. There's a monster in his stomach. It pulls just under his skin.

Stephanie is crying, and Tim sighs.] Steph... [And he doesn't have a damn thing to say. "Just another way to let her down", isn't that what he had told Bruce at her funeral? He hadn't cried then either, and the mallet that hits his chest, his heart, feels like it cut more than bruised.

Tim stays sitting, because he can't... think. Of what he's doing, of what he's supposed to do next. She hadn't wanted him close when they'd-- she wanted him to forget her, and maybe that's a constant even in whatever universe they're now in.] You're not bothering me. [Even if he sounds like he's forced that out through grit teeth but it's either that or

but he's honest, and when has that ever gotten him anywhere? He'll end up alone, because he's always alone, because no one wants to die and the best way to ensure that] Steph, just. [His train of thought stops there. Tim hates himself a little more because obviously that's still somehow possible. Steph's not even looking at him, so what in the hell is he even]

You were right, I guess. [His mouth feels sour and his throat is burning. But maybe he doesn't have to be a selfish goon here. He's already seen how that plays out. So if Steph (she's stronger than he'll ever be and he wants to tell her about Batgirl and how much better she is than him now) can be confident about this (she had been confident about it in his own time, too; something that's making him feel sick and dead), he can too.

Honesty. He owes her honesty. Because she's going to leave him, and that's not new. Everyone did. It's not new. He remembers spinning her in a hug, knowing she was alive again, and then learning she always had been, she'd just never wanted] I wouldn't be good company. [No one wanted him. Damian didn't have to spit it at him; the fact was tangible. She deserved more than-- someone who wouldn't dare leave his chair. For instance.

But he's sorry. And thanks for the help.

And please don't go.

But Tim does what Tim does best, and grimaces and takes the fault and stays quiet. He wonders how she built the staff, wonders just how functional it is. Thinks, he has a new project, because he'll be damned if he dies of-- suffocating heartbreak, for instance.]

[ The sound of her name is the only thing keeping her from running away right now. Whatever he has to say to her, she has to hear it. She's earned any and every rebuke, she has no right to run away from them.

But rebuke isn't what comes. It isn't exactly forgiveness, either, though. She sniffles, and wipes a few tears from her face. They'll make it hard to talk. ]

You don't have to do that, spare my feelings. I get it, if you--

[ She chokes on the words. If he hates her now, she can't say it. ]

I haven't exactly been great company either, since I. You know. Died.

You don't.

[He's breaking rules, here. Distraught, distressed, desperate-- he's not stupid. He's aware he's doing something he shouldn't, but that's been the point of Red Robin since the beginning of it all.

His eyes had gone wide at that, fearful but not anything less than bone-tired. The world has really screwed them all over, right?

Welcome to Club Robin.

Christ, she didn't deserve to think--

he wants to hurl, because he knows what her last memories must have been. So he stares dumbly, numbly at the fire ahead and breathes to counts of four. Then three. Then he squares his jaw and lifts his head and Steph is still there.

He doesn't want to run her off.] You don't die, Stephanie. [The funeral had swam in his head for weeks, and Dana would bring her up out of the blue in her broken rambling and Tim would always be so hurt by] You're Batgirl, actually. It's a good look on you. [So he breaks rules and he omits truths, but he's being honest and she's still there and if she stays a second more he might just] Your costume's eggplant, because of course it is. [He wishes his voice would waver, just a bit. It doesn't. He's experienced with-- this.]

[ You don't die. That stops her short. Her brain comes to a full stop, taking his words in but failing utterly to process any of them.

She doesn't die? ]

What?

[ She finally turns to face him, stunned confusion the only expression left on her face. The tears keep falling, of course. She has far too many of them and has let out far too few. She's numb most days, getting by without feeling much of anything. ]

But... how? I was bleeding out. I remember bleeding out.

[ She's pretty sure she couldn't have made it out of the building like that. ]

[He'll barf, but not now.

He can't promise he didn't feel something rise up in his throat, though, and suddenly he has an excuse for the sour, dry taste in his mouth.

Tim half-wonders if she knows how much he wants to claw at himself right now, because his skin doesn't feel like his own, it doesn't feel comfortable to him, he can't tolerate it right now.] It was bad.

[She'll hate him for that, and Tim figures he'd be fine with it, because if someone ever flat-out told him his life had been "bad" he can't be sure he wouldn't want to drive a knife through them.

He doesn't notice the tremors in his hands, because why would he? He can't process the reality of their lives on a good day and no, he really isn't cut out for this job, he guesses. It makes him feel like he's swallowed cement. That's how heavy that lump feels.] But Leslie helped.

[ 'Bad' feels like an understatement. She was healed when she came here and it's still bad. But she can see the tremor in his hand, even if he can't. She tries to imagine what it would have looked like, what it would have felt like.

She swallows thickly and rubs at one wrist. They still ache, a little. With how messed up her hands got she's surprised she could ever use them again. She stares at the scars there, for something to look at. ]

How did she...

[ No, that's not the right question. She swallows once more and tries again. ]

I didn't think anyone was looking.

[ She'd convinced herself- let herself be convinced- that she was abandoned, forgotten. That when she died it was alone and unmissed. ]

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