It happens. The Christmas spirit likes to tear into fresh and old wounds. There's actual studies on it. Tim keeps quiet, and then he's echoing her amused, awkward huff.
If it makes you feel any better, he doesn't say because he catches himself knowing that it will not help, I don't remember the last gift I've gotten so anything will get backflips outta me.
But in that same vein, his words dip experimentally into playfulness. "Seriously, it's okay. If it makes you feel better, though, I'm easy."
--stop.
"--to shop for."
It dawns on him that he misses... scripts. A deer in headlights, he struggles to salvage his butt from sinking in this shallow pool of niceties. "If you find anything with--"
God damn, he has no idea what he's doing and that's both unacceptable and plain sad.
His mind's blank.
"Like--"
Very empty.
It's not fun, the anxiety that loves him sloshing through the paths of what used to be Memory and Identity.
Tim shrugs, eyes alight with the idea of inventing someone new; Kate doesn't deserve it. This is supposed to be an apology and fresh start, not a game. A game he's losing. And he's breathless, exhaling again despite the empty strain of his lungs.
"--photography?Idon'tknow. A camera? It doesn't have to work, I like-- fixing-- And I'll let you know if I find the Mouse's siblings around. They'd make a cute set. Hey, I... gotta bounce."
Lame. So lame.
"I told someone I was taking over dishwashing duty and I'm absolutely not going to do that."
There is a brief eyebrow raise before the addendum. Why... why is he like this. She doesn't know. Boys are just... kinda weird, sometimes. She doesn't get it. Her lips purse a little, isn't going to comment on it. Even Tim Drake is deserving of a little grace.
Besides, there's something else— he visibly perks up a little, interested. He struggles through it, maybe he doesn't know (why doesn't he know what he likes?) but—
"You like photography?" Fixing? Like fixing cameras? Photography? She's lost in the thought. Milton, as much as she still dislikes the idea of raiding through people's homes, is pretty limited on technology. But like... if she found a walkman here, then, like— what if there might be something like a polaroid camera here? Like Max's.
She could try to find him one. Or ask someone she knows if they've ever found one. And if it's all busted then that'd be okay because he could try to fix it—
She's smiling to herself as she thinks. Yeah, that could totally work.
Something about dishes, see you around. Kate snaps out of her thoughts.
"Wait—" she reaches for him, tries to grab his hand — his non-injured arm. And then she abruptly freezes, realising — she's just went to grab his hand.
And she just... stands there for a long moment, awkward. Eyes wide and she has to look down, away.
"I... I hope Lieutenant Little wasn't too hard on you." it's sincerely said, even if she can't look up again. Her mouth twists to the side briefly. No, she didn't forget the... promise of him having words with Tim after all was said and done.
"He's worried." she says quietly. Worried about her, and she knows he has every right to be, as much as she feels guilt for that. He has enough on his plate without worrying about her. But he is a good man who's worried for her. "He— he helped me through something. And it was— it was messed up."
She's messed up.
"The kind of thing that doesn't just... go away just because someone helps you through it." If that... makes sense. Something she knows is going to keep the Lieutenant worrying about her. She exhales tightly.
"He's seen the worst— knows the worst." Probably freaked out, or something. Thinking she was gonna have a sequel to the cliffs of Milton Basin.
Tim Drake Shut Up Challenge 2024 cw: vague-ish SI, death mention
He's hungry. No, that's not the word. He's touch-starved. He knows this. His eyes widen at her exclamation and a blink later he's stopped everything to link their hands. Hers is still only halfway through breaking that barrier of personal space, and his own hand is totally from that injured arm which should absolutely have stayed in a cast for longer but...
Look, the boy's an opportunist and he'd have never survived as long as he somehow has if he never played dirty. A connection, light but firm. Easy to slip, but wishing it isn't.
His hands aren't nearly as rough as they ought to be. But cold- they're cold. He knows gloves are important but.
"My older brother would help me in the same way," he says, because that's more important. "I really can't tell you how many hours we would spend on the phone. It was hard to not feel like a bother. He always wanted to help, though. There's a... a part of us that wants to give more than we ever really want to receive."
His life is now lived through words in past tense.
Kate has big, sad eyes.
He's not going to push.
Instead, he does the cowardly thing. He kind of grips her hand, ever so gently, and gives their hands the tiniest sway upwards. Like he would with Stephanie, when they'd be talking about nothing and everything and they were young and in love.
He pulls back.
Because he's chicken-shit for the important things, and it's about time his mind gets flooded with gray-black static. He does, stubbornly, shove his hands now into the first available pocket.
He swears he's going to screw up, say all the wrong things, and he pins a very devil-may-care look on this girl. He laughs, raspy and shortlived and boyish and disbelieving. "Hey. Hey, no. Your Lieutenant's a teddy bear. Don't worry about me, worry about him. You're good for each other. But, better yet..."
He really needs to get away. It's an animal urge to run, to hide. He can't say anything else. Can't say that Little is someone to be watched but not avoided, not yet. Can't say that he only even remembered Christmas existed at all because of the nightmares that cycle around his head in this time of year about a mother's slit throat. Can't say about the dark room he made out of his parents' office because then the question becomes, well what did you like taking pictures of.
And, see, Tim just can't do that.
"Try not to worry too much, Kate. Just for the day. Merry Christmas."
Her hands in warm comparison. She's careful. Careful to mind about them getting too cold, careful to mind the threat of frostbite. And even if his hands are cold as she holds hers, she doesn't pull away. Holds it, also careful.
"I'm glad he was there for you." it's softly offered, the barest hint of a smile.
She never had an older sibling. She's the eldest of three. She's supposed to be that one for her sisters. Who's supposed to be the one for the eldest when things are so wrong for them?
There's the gentle swing. She doesn't get it, doesn't get him. Doesn't get how he can hold her hand like that and the last time he threw her off so badly everything just spiraled. He was so mean, even he said that, admitted it.
She doesn't get him. And there's no space here for it. Not now, not this time — and she lets him let go of her hand. She won't keep him, won't make him stay.
There's a tiny frown. Almost incredulous, a little amused more than anything. A teddy bear—? But she's quiet in reply, mulling, considering. It's a brief peace offering. But that's all it needs to be: brief.
And she nods, offers a final smile. Something quiet.
And then the moment is over, and Tim will say it has nothing to do with his predetermined timing of Little's patrol routes. (As if timing patrol routes was in any way difficult; he was a seasoned veteran at age kid.)
Tim bites at the inside of his cheek, and, ruining good farewells, he says, "No, I really gotta go."
...
He says, "I think I left the chainsaw running."
And he can imagine a hundred little Damians spawning from the one Default Damian, as the chainsaw revs and roars to life and slices him into-- uh-huh.
"It's going to eat right through my bed if the Aurora..."
Huh.
There's no graceful exit, just a restrained squeak of hurried and quiet cursing. Because Tim doesn't curse, like, much, and besides Kate--
She's cute.
Carrying flawed and harmful beliefs but hey who doesn't and.
Tim's running off. He stops just to say-
"Take the day off, I'll tell the Lieutenant if you don't--"
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If it makes you feel any better, he doesn't say because he catches himself knowing that it will not help, I don't remember the last gift I've gotten so anything will get backflips outta me.
But in that same vein, his words dip experimentally into playfulness. "Seriously, it's okay. If it makes you feel better, though, I'm easy."
--stop.
"--to shop for."
It dawns on him that he misses... scripts. A deer in headlights, he struggles to salvage his butt from sinking in this shallow pool of niceties. "If you find anything with--"
God damn, he has no idea what he's doing and that's both unacceptable and plain sad.
His mind's blank.
"Like--"
Very empty.
It's not fun, the anxiety that loves him sloshing through the paths of what used to be Memory and Identity.
Tim shrugs, eyes alight with the idea of inventing someone new; Kate doesn't deserve it. This is supposed to be an apology and fresh start, not a game. A game he's losing. And he's breathless, exhaling again despite the empty strain of his lungs.
"--photography?Idon'tknow. A camera? It doesn't have to work, I like-- fixing-- And I'll let you know if I find the Mouse's siblings around. They'd make a cute set. Hey, I... gotta bounce."
Lame. So lame.
"I told someone I was taking over dishwashing duty and I'm absolutely not going to do that."
That's better.
"I'll see you around?"
Like, duh?
cw: suicide attempt mention
Besides, there's something else— he visibly perks up a little, interested. He struggles through it, maybe he doesn't know (why doesn't he know what he likes?) but—
"You like photography?" Fixing? Like fixing cameras? Photography? She's lost in the thought. Milton, as much as she still dislikes the idea of raiding through people's homes, is pretty limited on technology. But like... if she found a walkman here, then, like— what if there might be something like a polaroid camera here? Like Max's.
She could try to find him one. Or ask someone she knows if they've ever found one. And if it's all busted then that'd be okay because he could try to fix it—
She's smiling to herself as she thinks. Yeah, that could totally work.
Something about dishes, see you around. Kate snaps out of her thoughts.
"Wait—" she reaches for him, tries to grab his hand — his non-injured arm. And then she abruptly freezes, realising — she's just went to grab his hand.
And she just... stands there for a long moment, awkward. Eyes wide and she has to look down, away.
"I... I hope Lieutenant Little wasn't too hard on you." it's sincerely said, even if she can't look up again. Her mouth twists to the side briefly. No, she didn't forget the... promise of him having words with Tim after all was said and done.
"He's worried." she says quietly. Worried about her, and she knows he has every right to be, as much as she feels guilt for that. He has enough on his plate without worrying about her. But he is a good man who's worried for her. "He— he helped me through something. And it was— it was messed up."
She's messed up.
"The kind of thing that doesn't just... go away just because someone helps you through it." If that... makes sense. Something she knows is going to keep the Lieutenant worrying about her. She exhales tightly.
"He's seen the worst— knows the worst." Probably freaked out, or something. Thinking she was gonna have a sequel to the cliffs of Milton Basin.
Tim Drake Shut Up Challenge 2024 cw: vague-ish SI, death mention
Look, the boy's an opportunist and he'd have never survived as long as he somehow has if he never played dirty. A connection, light but firm. Easy to slip, but wishing it isn't.
His hands aren't nearly as rough as they ought to be. But cold- they're cold. He knows gloves are important but.
"My older brother would help me in the same way," he says, because that's more important. "I really can't tell you how many hours we would spend on the phone. It was hard to not feel like a bother. He always wanted to help, though. There's a... a part of us that wants to give more than we ever really want to receive."
His life is now lived through words in past tense.
Kate has big, sad eyes.
He's not going to push.
Instead, he does the cowardly thing. He kind of grips her hand, ever so gently, and gives their hands the tiniest sway upwards. Like he would with Stephanie, when they'd be talking about nothing and everything and they were young and in love.
He pulls back.
Because he's chicken-shit for the important things, and it's about time his mind gets flooded with gray-black static. He does, stubbornly, shove his hands now into the first available pocket.
He swears he's going to screw up, say all the wrong things, and he pins a very devil-may-care look on this girl. He laughs, raspy and shortlived and boyish and disbelieving. "Hey. Hey, no. Your Lieutenant's a teddy bear. Don't worry about me, worry about him. You're good for each other. But, better yet..."
He really needs to get away. It's an animal urge to run, to hide. He can't say anything else. Can't say that Little is someone to be watched but not avoided, not yet. Can't say that he only even remembered Christmas existed at all because of the nightmares that cycle around his head in this time of year about a mother's slit throat. Can't say about the dark room he made out of his parents' office because then the question becomes, well what did you like taking pictures of.
And, see, Tim just can't do that.
"Try not to worry too much, Kate. Just for the day. Merry Christmas."
he did surprisingly well
"I'm glad he was there for you." it's softly offered, the barest hint of a smile.
She never had an older sibling. She's the eldest of three. She's supposed to be that one for her sisters. Who's supposed to be the one for the eldest when things are so wrong for them?
There's the gentle swing. She doesn't get it, doesn't get him. Doesn't get how he can hold her hand like that and the last time he threw her off so badly everything just spiraled. He was so mean, even he said that, admitted it.
She doesn't get him. And there's no space here for it. Not now, not this time — and she lets him let go of her hand. She won't keep him, won't make him stay.
There's a tiny frown. Almost incredulous, a little amused more than anything. A teddy bear—? But she's quiet in reply, mulling, considering. It's a brief peace offering. But that's all it needs to be: brief.
And she nods, offers a final smile. Something quiet.
"... Merry Christmas, Tim."
ok ok sorry 1 more
And then the moment is over, and Tim will say it has nothing to do with his predetermined timing of Little's patrol routes. (As if timing patrol routes was in any way difficult; he was a seasoned veteran at age kid.)
Tim bites at the inside of his cheek, and, ruining good farewells, he says, "No, I really gotta go."
...
He says, "I think I left the chainsaw running."
And he can imagine a hundred little Damians spawning from the one Default Damian, as the chainsaw revs and roars to life and slices him into-- uh-huh.
"It's going to eat right through my bed if the Aurora..."
Huh.
There's no graceful exit, just a restrained squeak of hurried and quiet cursing. Because Tim doesn't curse, like, much, and besides Kate--
She's cute.
Carrying flawed and harmful beliefs but hey who doesn't and.
Tim's running off. He stops just to say-
"Take the day off, I'll tell the Lieutenant if you don't--"
Okay for real now bye.
Peace. Love.
All that jazz.