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 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. ]
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:
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.
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.....
what an honor
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cw: suicide attempt mention
Tim Drake Shut Up Challenge 2024 cw: vague-ish SI, death mention
he did surprisingly well
ok ok sorry 1 more
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)
(no subject)
(no subject)
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.
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singillatim | christmas gifts 2024
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.