When the cat's away, the mice will... do mousey things, like make sure the coast is clear for the 11th time before making the choice to get the hell on with it. In other words, Navy man went bye-bye and Tim slipped into Kate's peripheral because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
With the clock ticking and his own self-awareness rising to dangerous levels threatening common sense, he clears his throat. "Hey! Kate. One sec--"
He digs a hand into his coat pocket. Then digs into the other coat pocket because he's a dunce at times who forgets simple things and he totally didn't misplace--
anyway, he's still talking because otherwise he'll get all flustered or whatever. A chatty, automatic, chipper kind of voice that's not all too out of place in a high school rotunda between classes. He says, "You know how we find pieces like snapshots of the town, before--" He thinks, well that's a depressing turn already. He course corrects and wonders what the fuck compelled him to open his mouth at all.
"Okay, look, I'm bad at this. I don't know if Christmas is a big thing for you."
Master detective that he is.
He presents a... thing with a hat in the open palm of a hand. Tim's expression is screwed into appropriate apprehension of his dumbassery. And his tone follows suit. He explains, "I was breaking down some cabinets in the house and found this little dude."
He assumes it's a dude because it has no pants.
"I tried to clean it up a little, but anyway, I thought of you, and I, uh."
How to say you're sorry without ever feeling sorry, and definitely without ever saying the word.
Tim has apparently run out of words; he's not used to... sincerity, or spur of the moment things, and he wonders if he's as flushed as he is tongue tied. He (lamely) offers up the... toy? decorative item? again, and looks like he's ready to bolt.
Confident that the poor girl will be trained to not reject an olive branch outright, Tim says a very shy kind of, "Merry Christmas?"
The. fucking. end.
"I swear it's not a cat toy, it just looks like one because of how small it is."
It's not to say she's been actively avoiding him since last month, but there's... definitely been a degree of avoidance going on. There's uncertainty, awkwardness. What happened was... a total mess, and it's some mixture of that and all that comes with that that's kept Kate away. Embarrassment? Totally. Shame? Some of that too. Hurt? ... Mm, yeah. Even with the mouthed apology. Withdrawal to not rock the boat further after... everything that went down is... a far easier way to deal with it all.
New Interlopers come into town, and she keeps busy. Tries to keep everything else at bay for some modicum of peace from her own mind.
Kate's not ignorant to the fact that Lieutenant Little is no longer around when Tim approaches. She's withdrawn, uncertain, silent as she watches him dig around in his coat pocket for something. Not sure what's going on here.
"I do celebrate Christmas, but I guess there's not much celebrating this year." Christmas has been.... really hard. This place, the fact she's without her family. She misses her dad, her sisters. ... Even her mom. It's... very not Christmas-y, here.
There's a little inhale of air, her expression softening at the sight of the tiny creature in the palm of his hand. Oh. Oh, gosh — that's so cute, and his little Santa hat—
Carefully, she reaches for the mouse.
"Thanks." she holds it in two hands, the tiniest of smiles at her lips — genuinely delighted in it. She's pretty charmed by the thing. "That's... really nice of you to think of me. He's really cute."
Maybe it's an ornament? Who knows. But. Okay, yeah. This was really nice of him. And she sees it for what it's supposed to be. Even if it's not Christmas-y here, it's a time of good will. Her smile slips a little, mouth twisting to the side.
There's not much celebrating this year. Heard. The smile Tim finds himself working to soften is initially sharp, callous in its yearning because it always goes ignored. It's not a mean edge to the smile; Tim just hadn't learned to moderate the phantom hurt of hoping he found someone as alone as he's been. Commiseration.
The circumstances are different, but the same.
Sort of.
He doesn't say anything until the gift is in her hands and in a show of hurried childishness to break the misery of that cloud over his head, he stuffs his hands in the coat pockets. "Hey, come on," he urges, voice ever so... easy. He's easy to talk to. Sort of. "It's hard to keep track of the days. I'm sure there's someone who's homesick for the tradition, too. It's hard not to feel like something is missing."
And as for obligation and reciprocation- and her smile is really cute and that's not fair-
"Nah, no, don't-- you already helped a lot with the... uh."
"I... guess so." There's agreement there, and she nods a little. "But I suppose I can't blame anyone for not getting into the Christmas spirit, either."
She can make all the paper chains she likes, sometimes it's hard to feel festive when it feels like the world's ended and they're totally on their own out here. Even for as much as she misses her family so much, and the idea of celebrating, it's hard to really... feel uplifted by much. It was nice to do something for the Solstice, at least.
The light in the dark. And the darkness comprehended it not.
God, she misses her dad so much.
There's an exhale, a little amused and a little awkward. Ah, yeah. The bunnies.
"I know, but it's—" That doesn't count as a gift. "It's... different, y'know? It's not exactly a gift like this."
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--"
[ It had all started smoothly enough. He'd been breaking his fast in the Community Hall with a cup of strong black coffee when Kate had arrived; one thing led to another and when he found she had plans to go foraging in the woods, of course manners and his duty as a gentleman demanded he offer himself as escort.
The walk had been pleasanter by far than might be expected, thanks to their grim surroundings, but conversation with Kate flows easily, now that he's grown more comfortable in her presence. It's still strange, but not impossibly so, and he's been lonely here in this place without any of his fellow midshipman and other officers, without Matthew and Styles, who have been so steadily by his side for so long.
He blames himself, of course — or will, when he has a moment to think. He hadn't thought anything of Kate going out on the ice in search of a quicker way across one corner of the little pond. Only when he hears the sharp report of ice cracking and her subsequent scream does he realize his folly.
Horatio sprints for the ice, flinging himself onto his belly as he reaches out to her, fingers grasping for hers. ]
[ It isn't the first time she's walked on the ice of the ponds of Milton's wilds. Of course she takes a whole lot of care, but it's always been so solid — even with the summer months. Winter's never really let go of this place. And it seems so steady beneath her feet as she steps onto it until the strange, horrible crack makes her freeze and the ice gives way, water swallowing her.
It's a small mercy she's able to keep her head above water when she gasps as the shock of the cold hits her, but she's quickly struggling — panic threatens to drown her quicker than the frigid water can. She flails, gasping and spluttering. ]
Please, no— no— [ Horror flashes in her eyes, a shaking hand reaching for his. ] I can't, c-can't— Horatio—
[ Her brain's scrambled with the cold-shock, but she grips onto his hand. ]
[ It's desperately important she not panic. Horatio forces a calm and level tone into his voice, giving her something less material but just as important as his hand to cling to. His fingers, long and raw-boned, grip her hand and wrist with single-minded resolve. ]
I have you, Miss March. I promise I won't let you go.
[ Their position is precarious in the extreme. He glances around himself, attention arrowing in on a root that pokes out through the ice just a few inches past the sole of his boot. If he can only hook his foot around it—
Horatio looks back at her, intent, his mind perfectly clear and coldly calculating, just as if he were back aboard the Indefatigable and facing action. ]
I'm going to brace myself against that tree root there, and draw you out. Miss Marsh, when I say, I need you to kick as hard as you can, but do your best not to pull on me. Any further pressure and that ice will only continue to crack.
[ He fixes her with a serious glance, but fills his voice with encouragement. ]
You can do this, I have no doubt. Now—
[ His questing foot finds the root, finds purchase, and he calls out the order with all the breath in his lungs, heaving hard at the same time. ]
[ Her head's above the water, and she manages to rest her other forearm on the ice. It's hard to breathe, and she doesn't know if it's the cold water around her with some kind of vice-like grip on her lungs or the sheer panic of the situation. She fights to keep her breaths steady — her teeth starting to chatter as she cries a little between the breaths. She's scared.
But he's got her, he's got her hand. She won't drown. And it's something to focus on, something to calm her own a little.
Kick, don't pull. The ice might crack otherwise, and it's another frightening thought, and her head's shaking a little. She voices a few soft little chattering no's. Like, it's too much. She doesn't know how to do this. She can't.
Until he looks at her again, and she stares back with wide eyes and it quietens something in her. ]
O-okay. Okay— [ Kate nods shakily, bracing herself a little. Her legs are already starting to feel a little numb.
But she kicks as hard as she can, working with him as he pulls on her. Even with the watered down weight of her, there isn't much to her. After a few moments, she can feel herself leaving the water behind her — thank God. And all she can do for a moment is cry out in exhausted, relief, babbling a little. ]
The Aurora is the last thing she remembers: the swirling lights before her and the haunting, ethereal chorus of sounds. Then, beneath her feet, there is no snow but rock and earth and the eternal, frigid chill in the air is replaced with a warmer, less biting one. Still, it's unfamiliar — and not even the near-distant shape of buildings looks like anything she's ever seen before. The only thing that gives her the slightest hint of familiarity is a cylinder structure, like some giant umbrella, bearing the words: BRIDGES.
She knows that word, that name. And she can think of only one person, and she knows it might be impossible but if there's a tiny chance, then— well— sometimes you have to lean on that with all the faith you can. So she reaches out, on a hope and a prayer — maybe she still can, maybe the gifts from Enola are still there. Maybe they are, with how it feels like calling out into the void, how no answer comes. But she tries, holes up beneath the shelter.
(Maybe he's here, somewhere. Maybe... maybe there's a chance he's still alive.)
It's not him who turns up eventually. But someone else. The man says little, but he gives enough of an explanation. Gives his name: Sam. Just Sam. and explains he's been sent to deliver her to Heartman. Kate stares at him for a long moment, almost in disbelief but also in relief. He's... he's here, alive. Not on the Beach, where he said he'd be after. And so she agrees, only— getting there is... not what she expects it to be. And she can do nothing but babble a little on the journey up into the mountains.
When she's let out of the body bag, it's not a moment too soon. But she's dry and in one piece as Sam leads the way inside, hovering back a little as Kate quietly overtakes him — peering into the darkened room and looking down to test her weight on the floor with a frown. That's Chopin, she thinks, Sam hearing her thoughts with a soft grunt of confusion and—
"Heartman—!" Kate rushes to him, through strange figures, her own heart in her throat and her chest aching with the sight of him. He's here. Tears prickle in the corner of her eyes. She reaches for him, grabbing onto his arm and shaking it gently. "Hey, it's me. I'm—"
He doesn't move. Kate shakes his arm again, her voice wavers with uncertainty. "... Heartman?"
Sam hangs back, but he leans in slightly, gesturing for her to move away: Might wanna step back. Kate turns to look at him, then to Heartman, the device on his chest. She inhales, understanding washing over her as she lets go and steps back. Soon enough, Sam's warning comes to light:
Heartman comes back with a jolt, senses flooding into his body in a crushing waved. Sight, sound, smell, breath, all at once, and as his lungs fill with air his whole body jolts, hand blindly reaching out for his hourglass, vision a blur.
He'd been closer. He'd made progress. He taps the hourglass, chiralium floating upwards, aware of two people among the BT casts and his research, Sam and a blonde, but he has to focus--
--he sits up entirely, twisting his arm, cuff moving to life as he begins to type, muttering to himself as he logs the number of trips, crunches the numbers just as fast as the computer does, the whole room coming to life beyond the dark and neon: Heartman murmurs about a coloured anomaly just as the main window to his research lab whirs to life and shows the majestic mountains. Sam waits patiently, and Kate only has to wait a scant few minutes before Heartman waves away the holographic screen he's created and turns his attention to her.
Ah. This is awkward. How long had she been here? He stills, looking slightly unsure, gaze focused entirely on the Anomaly. Probably, he should call her by her name.
"Ehm..." He waves a hand, a bit sheepish, and then decides to extend it.
"Kate, yes? Wonderful to meet you. I'm very glad Sam was able to pick you up."
Edward Little: IOU one (1) Violin Recital to cash in whenever he wants.
John Irving: A book of modern hymns.
Wynonna Earp: a single malt whiskey miniature she found whilst scavenging.
Harry Goodsir: a copy of Pollution Monitoring with Lichens by D H S Richardson from The Naturalist’s Handbook series.
Francis Crozier: a copy of National Geographic, containing articles on the McMurdo Station’s current research projects.
Thomas Jopson: a herbal tea blend she’s made.
Tim Drake: a (broken, but repairable) polaroid camera she found lying around. He won’t receive it until some time (or at least until he returns to Milton).
Rorschach: a bottle of her homemade rosehip syrup (it’s very sweet).
Ruby Rose: homemade peanut butter cookies (made with sugar, peanut butter and powdered egg).
Levi Jordan: also gets some homemade peanut butter cookies!
Bigby Wolf: some venison jerky.
Benton Fraser: her Gordon Lightfoot tape (and some venison jerky for Dief and the puppies).
James Fitzjames: a bottle of her homemade rosehip syrup.
The last time she had seen him, he'd looked peaceful. Laid in bed, so still and quiet. She'd sworn she could see the ghost of a smile at his lips, and she'd held his hand and it had felt so cold and heavy in hers. She'd prayed and not wanted to leave him.
She'd never seen a dead body before. Of course she'd known that people had died; so many people had died in the time since she'd first arrived in the Northern Territories. She'd been spared from getting too close. People had kept her away. But Heartman was— he was gone. And yet he's here, lying in front of her—
And he jolts back into the world of the living and Kate startles back. She stares with wide eyes, frozen on the spot. She doesn't even pay attention to the shock of darkness to light. Moving, breathing, living—
He holds a hand out to her. Kate stares. Her eyes flutter, emotion shifting in her expression — grief and joy all mixed into one.
"You said you'd gone to the Beach." she breaths the words. "You told me not to worry."
Kate doesn't take her hand. Instead she steps forward, reaching for him. It's awkward, with the AED. She doesn't care. She moves to hug him, holding onto him as tightly as she can.
(Sam startles, stepping back a little — awkward and unsure.)
"I.. I didn't think I'd see you again."
A Letter, July 2016. | cw: suicide ideation, discussions of attempted suicide, mild ref to npc death
I guess this is probably overdue. I just never really knew how to... say it. But Lieutenant Irving suggested I try writing you a letter. And I've tried a bunch of times to write this, not really knowing how to start but I guess this would be a lot easier than trying to say it out loud. This.. means he knows about you. Knows how I feel about you. I don't really know how that's going to pan out, and I'm kinda worried about it.
(Wynonna also knows, for the record. She was the only one I really told, after the first time we kissed. I didn't tell anyone else.)
With not telling people— it's not out of shame. It's not. I swear. I just don't really know much about any of this stuff because it's never been something for me. But I know how a lot of people feel towards me, and I know this would all come back on you if they found out about the two of us. There's enough in this place going on without any of that. I don't want people giving you a hard time, I've never wanted that for you. And just— I don't know what this is, what we are exactly.
But I still like it. I like you. I love you. You're so frustrating and obnoxious and I never know what I'm gonna get with you half the time. You're so dumb and annoying. But you're kind, and the good kind of dumb. You're a good person. You give me more grace than I give myself some days. And with how awful everything is in this place, you're something nice and peaceful and good. I miss the nights when you're not sleeping on my bedroom floor, and even when you snore — it's comforting to know you're there.
And I was so mad at you for what you did.
I know if you hadn't been there, I don't think I would be here. I know that. You saved me. You stopped Lieutenant Little from doing something even more unforgiveable. He did something wrong, he hurt me. And I've thought a lot about the people who've hurt me before. There was this verse I used to read over and over again: "When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers." And I kinda wonder if it's like when you're drowning, but your body's trying to fight back against it. The thrashing and clawing, how violent it is but you're still dying. I was dying, back home. Maybe I still am. I don't know.
And a lot of the time that's hard to reckon with. I'm tired, Tim. Some days I'm too tired. Being here in the Northern Territories has given me a lot of time to reflect on things, but I'm still tired. Sometimes I still don't want to be here at all. But I'm trying to be here. And I don't know what'll happen when I go back home. But when I thought about it, I knew it was wrong to think about that. About being angry and vengeful. I hope one day Nathan Prescott gets punished for what he did to me, but I didn't want to be the one to obsess over punishment. I don't want to be hateful or vengeful or always so angry for what happened to me.
Lieutenant Little will pay for what he did until the day he dies: he'll never forgive himself even if I do. I know how much pain all of this will cause him, and it'll stay with him even longer than the pain he caused me. He's not a man who shrugs off his mistakes and forgets about them.
He's saved my life three times in this place. He didn't have to. No one has to do anything in this place other than try to survive. But he did. He found me out in the wilds when I first ended up in this place, freaking out and cold and he gave me his coat and led me to Milton. He talked me down from the top of the Basin when the Darkwalker got into my head enough to make everything I'd been feeling come back to the front of my mind and just think maybe there was no point in trying to keep going — like I'd already wasted my life, it was over. The only thing I needed to do was put myself to sleep forever like I was supposed to do back home. And when the Darkwalker took over and made everyone go crazy last June — he stopped another Interloper from killing me. He killed that man. To stop him from killing me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him.
But he's more than that, too. He's kind, and gentle. He has the best laugh and he sucks at cooking but he's pretty good at prepping vegetables for me. He always has time to listen to me play violin, and he just wants me to be safe and happy. He's important to me, and I care about him. He's family to me. He's someone so precious to me and I'm so glad I ever met him.
And you could have taken him away from me — and I don't think I could have forgiven you for that. I was so mad that you turned stopping what was going on into hurting him back, into getting some kind of instant revenge or whatever crap that was that you pulled. I was the one who got hurt, and you made it about you. You took it out of my hands, you took the power out of my hands — and you, of all people, should know know how wrong that was to do to someone like me, knowing what I'd been through back home. If anything, I should have been the one who decided. But it was like you forgot about me, and I was so angry with you about it. And you couldn't even come and say sorry about it afterwards.
I don't want to be angry. I don't want to hate you, because I love you. And I had to go away so I wasn't just stuck in Milton being angry with you, letting it fester. I just wanted some time and some space to go and not think about it. Because I'm allowed that. And it helped, it did. Something new to focus on while I tried to make peace with what happened. And I think I was okay. Maybe. Doing a little better.
I don't remember what happened, how it went wrong on the way back. And I don't really remember much of what happened, but I remember thinking how you once told me that you didn't like hurting people. That you didn't want to hurt me. And it felt like such a joke because you did hurt me. I've never felt like that before, that kind of anger. Like the things you said to me were just crap, like you just lied. Like you didn't really care about me and you were just proving it all right that no one cares.
And I hurt you. I hit you. I've never hit anyone, but I hit you. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry a thousand times over. And I don't care if you think you deserved it. You deserve me being angry at you, you deserve me wanting to be away from you for a while for what you did, for how you hurt me. But you didn't deserve me hitting you.
I have to work on forgiving myself for that, even if you'll probably tell me there's nothing to be forgiven for.
But I also want you to tell me sorry, too. Because I deserve that. I know you stopped him from almost killing me, and that was right. But you twisted it. You hurt me. And I want you to say sorry.
Because I want us to be okay again. Even though I was mad, I missed you. I missed being around you. I missed your dumb smile (Yes. It's dumb. Super dumb. And cute.). Because I still like you and love you, and despite the fact I don't know exactly what we are — I wanna find out. I want us to talk because I know you can be honest, and I wanna work this out.
And I hope maybe you come find me after you read this.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shh........ dec 27th??? random af
With the clock ticking and his own self-awareness rising to dangerous levels threatening common sense, he clears his throat. "Hey! Kate. One sec--"
He digs a hand into his coat pocket. Then digs into the other coat pocket because he's a dunce at times who forgets simple things and he totally didn't misplace--
anyway, he's still talking because otherwise he'll get all flustered or whatever. A chatty, automatic, chipper kind of voice that's not all too out of place in a high school rotunda between classes. He says, "You know how we find pieces like snapshots of the town, before--" He thinks, well that's a depressing turn already. He course corrects and wonders what the fuck compelled him to open his mouth at all.
"Okay, look, I'm bad at this. I don't know if Christmas is a big thing for you."
Master detective that he is.
He presents a... thing with a hat in the open palm of a hand. Tim's expression is screwed into appropriate apprehension of his dumbassery. And his tone follows suit. He explains, "I was breaking down some cabinets in the house and found this little dude."
He assumes it's a dude because it has no pants.
"I tried to clean it up a little, but anyway, I thought of you, and I, uh."
How to say you're sorry without ever feeling sorry, and definitely without ever saying the word.
Tim has apparently run out of words; he's not used to... sincerity, or spur of the moment things, and he wonders if he's as flushed as he is tongue tied. He (lamely) offers up the... toy? decorative item? again, and looks like he's ready to bolt.
Confident that the poor girl will be trained to not reject an olive branch outright, Tim says a very shy kind of, "Merry Christmas?"
The. fucking. end.
"I swear it's not a cat toy, it just looks like one because of how small it is."
my last tag of 2023.....
New Interlopers come into town, and she keeps busy. Tries to keep everything else at bay for some modicum of peace from her own mind.
Kate's not ignorant to the fact that Lieutenant Little is no longer around when Tim approaches. She's withdrawn, uncertain, silent as she watches him dig around in his coat pocket for something. Not sure what's going on here.
"I do celebrate Christmas, but I guess there's not much celebrating this year." Christmas has been.... really hard. This place, the fact she's without her family. She misses her dad, her sisters. ... Even her mom. It's... very not Christmas-y, here.
There's a little inhale of air, her expression softening at the sight of the tiny creature in the palm of his hand. Oh. Oh, gosh — that's so cute, and his little Santa hat—
Carefully, she reaches for the mouse.
"Thanks." she holds it in two hands, the tiniest of smiles at her lips — genuinely delighted in it. She's pretty charmed by the thing. "That's... really nice of you to think of me. He's really cute."
Maybe it's an ornament? Who knows. But. Okay, yeah. This was really nice of him. And she sees it for what it's supposed to be. Even if it's not Christmas-y here, it's a time of good will. Her smile slips a little, mouth twisting to the side.
"... I didn't get you anything."
what an honor
The circumstances are different, but the same.
Sort of.
He doesn't say anything until the gift is in her hands and in a show of hurried childishness to break the misery of that cloud over his head, he stuffs his hands in the coat pockets. "Hey, come on," he urges, voice ever so... easy. He's easy to talk to. Sort of. "It's hard to keep track of the days. I'm sure there's someone who's homesick for the tradition, too. It's hard not to feel like something is missing."
And as for obligation and reciprocation- and her smile is really cute and that's not fair-
"Nah, no, don't-- you already helped a lot with the... uh."
Meat farm.
"Don't worry about it."
no subject
She can make all the paper chains she likes, sometimes it's hard to feel festive when it feels like the world's ended and they're totally on their own out here. Even for as much as she misses her family so much, and the idea of celebrating, it's hard to really... feel uplifted by much. It was nice to do something for the Solstice, at least.
The light in the dark. And the darkness comprehended it not.
God, she misses her dad so much.
There's an exhale, a little amused and a little awkward. Ah, yeah. The bunnies.
"I know, but it's—" That doesn't count as a gift. "It's... different, y'know? It's not exactly a gift like this."
no subject
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.
you lying next to me— AU-shaped
The walk had been pleasanter by far than might be expected, thanks to their grim surroundings, but conversation with Kate flows easily, now that he's grown more comfortable in her presence. It's still strange, but not impossibly so, and he's been lonely here in this place without any of his fellow midshipman and other officers, without Matthew and Styles, who have been so steadily by his side for so long.
He blames himself, of course — or will, when he has a moment to think. He hadn't thought anything of Kate going out on the ice in search of a quicker way across one corner of the little pond. Only when he hears the sharp report of ice cracking and her subsequent scream does he realize his folly.
Horatio sprints for the ice, flinging himself onto his belly as he reaches out to her, fingers grasping for hers. ]
Take hold of my hand, quickly!
no subject
It's a small mercy she's able to keep her head above water when she gasps as the shock of the cold hits her, but she's quickly struggling — panic threatens to drown her quicker than the frigid water can. She flails, gasping and spluttering. ]
Please, no— no— [ Horror flashes in her eyes, a shaking hand reaching for his. ] I can't, c-can't— Horatio—
[ Her brain's scrambled with the cold-shock, but she grips onto his hand. ]
no subject
I have you, Miss March. I promise I won't let you go.
[ Their position is precarious in the extreme. He glances around himself, attention arrowing in on a root that pokes out through the ice just a few inches past the sole of his boot. If he can only hook his foot around it—
Horatio looks back at her, intent, his mind perfectly clear and coldly calculating, just as if he were back aboard the Indefatigable and facing action. ]
I'm going to brace myself against that tree root there, and draw you out. Miss Marsh, when I say, I need you to kick as hard as you can, but do your best not to pull on me. Any further pressure and that ice will only continue to crack.
[ He fixes her with a serious glance, but fills his voice with encouragement. ]
You can do this, I have no doubt. Now—
[ His questing foot finds the root, finds purchase, and he calls out the order with all the breath in his lungs, heaving hard at the same time. ]
Kick!
no subject
But he's got her, he's got her hand. She won't drown. And it's something to focus on, something to calm her own a little.
Kick, don't pull. The ice might crack otherwise, and it's another frightening thought, and her head's shaking a little. She voices a few soft little chattering no's. Like, it's too much. She doesn't know how to do this. She can't.
Until he looks at her again, and she stares back with wide eyes and it quietens something in her. ]
O-okay. Okay— [ Kate nods shakily, bracing herself a little. Her legs are already starting to feel a little numb.
But she kicks as hard as she can, working with him as he pulls on her. Even with the watered down weight of her, there isn't much to her. After a few moments, she can feel herself leaving the water behind her — thank God. And all she can do for a moment is cry out in exhausted, relief, babbling a little. ]
I—I'm okay, I'm o-okay— th-thank you, I'm—
no subject
She knows that word, that name. And she can think of only one person, and she knows it might be impossible but if there's a tiny chance, then— well— sometimes you have to lean on that with all the faith you can. So she reaches out, on a hope and a prayer — maybe she still can, maybe the gifts from Enola are still there. Maybe they are, with how it feels like calling out into the void, how no answer comes. But she tries, holes up beneath the shelter.
(Maybe he's here, somewhere. Maybe... maybe there's a chance he's still alive.)
It's not him who turns up eventually. But someone else. The man says little, but he gives enough of an explanation. Gives his name: Sam. Just Sam. and explains he's been sent to deliver her to Heartman. Kate stares at him for a long moment, almost in disbelief but also in relief. He's... he's here, alive. Not on the Beach, where he said he'd be after. And so she agrees, only— getting there is... not what she expects it to be. And she can do nothing but babble a little on the journey up into the mountains.
When she's let out of the body bag, it's not a moment too soon. But she's dry and in one piece as Sam leads the way inside, hovering back a little as Kate quietly overtakes him — peering into the darkened room and looking down to test her weight on the floor with a frown. That's Chopin, she thinks, Sam hearing her thoughts with a soft grunt of confusion and—
"Heartman—!" Kate rushes to him, through strange figures, her own heart in her throat and her chest aching with the sight of him. He's here. Tears prickle in the corner of her eyes. She reaches for him, grabbing onto his arm and shaking it gently. "Hey, it's me. I'm—"
He doesn't move. Kate shakes his arm again, her voice wavers with uncertainty. "... Heartman?"
Sam hangs back, but he leans in slightly, gesturing for her to move away: Might wanna step back. Kate turns to look at him, then to Heartman, the device on his chest. She inhales, understanding washing over her as she lets go and steps back. Soon enough, Sam's warning comes to light:
Administering shock. Stand clear.
no subject
He'd been closer. He'd made progress. He taps the hourglass, chiralium floating upwards, aware of two people among the BT casts and his research, Sam and a blonde, but he has to focus--
--he sits up entirely, twisting his arm, cuff moving to life as he begins to type, muttering to himself as he logs the number of trips, crunches the numbers just as fast as the computer does, the whole room coming to life beyond the dark and neon: Heartman murmurs about a coloured anomaly just as the main window to his research lab whirs to life and shows the majestic mountains. Sam waits patiently, and Kate only has to wait a scant few minutes before Heartman waves away the holographic screen he's created and turns his attention to her.
Ah. This is awkward. How long had she been here? He stills, looking slightly unsure, gaze focused entirely on the Anomaly. Probably, he should call her by her name.
"Ehm..." He waves a hand, a bit sheepish, and then decides to extend it.
"Kate, yes? Wonderful to meet you. I'm very glad Sam was able to pick you up."
singillatim | christmas gifts 2024
no subject
She'd never seen a dead body before. Of course she'd known that people had died; so many people had died in the time since she'd first arrived in the Northern Territories. She'd been spared from getting too close. People had kept her away. But Heartman was— he was gone. And yet he's here, lying in front of her—
And he jolts back into the world of the living and Kate startles back. She stares with wide eyes, frozen on the spot. She doesn't even pay attention to the shock of darkness to light. Moving, breathing, living—
He holds a hand out to her. Kate stares. Her eyes flutter, emotion shifting in her expression — grief and joy all mixed into one.
"You said you'd gone to the Beach." she breaths the words. "You told me not to worry."
Kate doesn't take her hand. Instead she steps forward, reaching for him. It's awkward, with the AED. She doesn't care. She moves to hug him, holding onto him as tightly as she can.
(Sam startles, stepping back a little — awkward and unsure.)
"I.. I didn't think I'd see you again."
A Letter, July 2016. | cw: suicide ideation, discussions of attempted suicide, mild ref to npc death
I guess this is probably overdue. I just never really knew how to... say it. But Lieutenant Irving suggested I try writing you a letter. And I've tried a bunch of times to write this, not really knowing how to start but I guess this would be a lot easier than trying to say it out loud. This.. means he knows about you. Knows how I feel about you. I don't really know how that's going to pan out, and I'm kinda worried about it.
(Wynonna also knows, for the record. She was the only one I really told, after the first time we kissed. I didn't tell anyone else.)
With not telling people— it's not out of shame. It's not. I swear. I just don't really know much about any of this stuff because it's never been something for me. But I know how a lot of people feel towards me, and I know this would all come back on you if they found out about the two of us. There's enough in this place going on without any of that. I don't want people giving you a hard time, I've never wanted that for you. And just— I don't know what this is, what we are exactly.
But I still like it. I like you. I love you. You're so frustrating and obnoxious and I never know what I'm gonna get with you half the time. You're so dumb and annoying. But you're kind, and the good kind of dumb. You're a good person. You give me more grace than I give myself some days. And with how awful everything is in this place, you're something nice and peaceful and good. I miss the nights when you're not sleeping on my bedroom floor, and even when you snore — it's comforting to know you're there.
And I was so mad at you for what you did.
I know if you hadn't been there, I don't think I would be here. I know that. You saved me. You stopped Lieutenant Little from doing something even more unforgiveable. He did something wrong, he hurt me. And I've thought a lot about the people who've hurt me before. There was this verse I used to read over and over again: "When justice is done, it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers." And I kinda wonder if it's like when you're drowning, but your body's trying to fight back against it. The thrashing and clawing, how violent it is but you're still dying. I was dying, back home. Maybe I still am. I don't know.
And a lot of the time that's hard to reckon with. I'm tired, Tim. Some days I'm too tired. Being here in the Northern Territories has given me a lot of time to reflect on things, but I'm still tired. Sometimes I still don't want to be here at all. But I'm trying to be here. And I don't know what'll happen when I go back home. But when I thought about it, I knew it was wrong to think about that. About being angry and vengeful. I hope one day Nathan Prescott gets punished for what he did to me, but I didn't want to be the one to obsess over punishment. I don't want to be hateful or vengeful or always so angry for what happened to me.
Lieutenant Little will pay for what he did until the day he dies: he'll never forgive himself even if I do. I know how much pain all of this will cause him, and it'll stay with him even longer than the pain he caused me. He's not a man who shrugs off his mistakes and forgets about them.
He's saved my life three times in this place. He didn't have to. No one has to do anything in this place other than try to survive. But he did. He found me out in the wilds when I first ended up in this place, freaking out and cold and he gave me his coat and led me to Milton. He talked me down from the top of the Basin when the Darkwalker got into my head enough to make everything I'd been feeling come back to the front of my mind and just think maybe there was no point in trying to keep going — like I'd already wasted my life, it was over. The only thing I needed to do was put myself to sleep forever like I was supposed to do back home. And when the Darkwalker took over and made everyone go crazy last June — he stopped another Interloper from killing me. He killed that man. To stop him from killing me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him.
But he's more than that, too. He's kind, and gentle. He has the best laugh and he sucks at cooking but he's pretty good at prepping vegetables for me. He always has time to listen to me play violin, and he just wants me to be safe and happy. He's important to me, and I care about him. He's family to me. He's someone so precious to me and I'm so glad I ever met him.
And you could have taken him away from me — and I don't think I could have forgiven you for that. I was so mad that you turned stopping what was going on into hurting him back, into getting some kind of instant revenge or whatever crap that was that you pulled. I was the one who got hurt, and you made it about you. You took it out of my hands, you took the power out of my hands — and you, of all people, should know know how wrong that was to do to someone like me, knowing what I'd been through back home. If anything, I should have been the one who decided. But it was like you forgot about me, and I was so angry with you about it. And you couldn't even come and say sorry about it afterwards.
I don't want to be angry. I don't want to hate you, because I love you. And I had to go away so I wasn't just stuck in Milton being angry with you, letting it fester. I just wanted some time and some space to go and not think about it. Because I'm allowed that. And it helped, it did. Something new to focus on while I tried to make peace with what happened. And I think I was okay. Maybe. Doing a little better.
I don't remember what happened, how it went wrong on the way back. And I don't really remember much of what happened, but I remember thinking how you once told me that you didn't like hurting people. That you didn't want to hurt me. And it felt like such a joke because you did hurt me. I've never felt like that before, that kind of anger. Like the things you said to me were just crap, like you just lied. Like you didn't really care about me and you were just proving it all right that no one cares.
And I hurt you. I hit you. I've never hit anyone, but I hit you. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry a thousand times over. And I don't care if you think you deserved it. You deserve me being angry at you, you deserve me wanting to be away from you for a while for what you did, for how you hurt me. But you didn't deserve me hitting you.
I have to work on forgiving myself for that, even if you'll probably tell me there's nothing to be forgiven for.
But I also want you to tell me sorry, too. Because I deserve that. I know you stopped him from almost killing me, and that was right. But you twisted it. You hurt me. And I want you to say sorry.
Because I want us to be okay again. Even though I was mad, I missed you. I missed being around you. I missed your dumb smile (Yes. It's dumb. Super dumb. And cute.). Because I still like you and love you, and despite the fact I don't know exactly what we are — I wanna find out. I want us to talk because I know you can be honest, and I wanna work this out.
And I hope maybe you come find me after you read this.
Kate.