#manic eyed tim moment

[iheartmangomonster]

tim of thee

[giandee]

The El Paso Riot

In the hills of West Virginia, young Hasil Adkins was growing up dirt-poor, his mind filled with the sounds of Hank Williams and the burgeoning rock 'n' roll movement. He picked up a guitar and started banging out primitive tunes, not caring a lick about technique or finesse. For Hasil, it was all about the raw, unbridled energy. He cut his teeth playing in local honky-tonks, his wild-eyed performances and bizarre lyrics about "the Hunch" and peanut butter on the moon earning him a reputation as a true madman of rock. Hasil's recordings, crude and frenzied, found their way onto a few small labels, but mainstream success eluded him. Undeterred, he kept right on playing, pouring his heart and soul into every manic performance.

Meanwhile, down in Lubbock, Texas, Norman Carl Odam was channeling his own brand of crazy. Born in 1947, Odam grew up shy and eccentric, his unique vocal style and penchant for public performance setting him apart from the crowd. He taught himself to play a slew of instruments and began crafting a persona that would come to be known as "The Legendary Stardust Cowboy." Odam's antics - playing on the roof of his car, crashing parties, and belting out his wild tunes - earned him a mix of admiration and scorn in his hometown. He set out for California with dreams of making it big, but found no takers. Undaunted, he returned to Lubbock, working odd jobs by day and tearing up the honky-tonks by night.

In 1968, inspired by Tiny Tim's appearance on The Tonight Show, Odam made a fateful decision. He pointed his car towards New York City, determined to make his own mark. But fate intervened in Fort Worth, where a chance encounter with two vacuum cleaner salesmen led to Odam's first recording session. With T-Bone Burnett at the controls, "The Legendary Stardust Cowboy" cut his debut single, "Paralyzed." The stars seemed to align when Mercury Records picked up the single for national distribution. "Paralyzed" even scraped the lower reaches of the Billboard charts, and Odam found himself on Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In. But the laughter from the studio audience was more derisive than appreciative, and a musicians' union strike cut short Odam's television moment in the sun.

As the '70s dawned, both Hasil and Odam found themselves adrift, their dreams of stardom fading like a desert mirage. Hasil kept recording, his songs growing more unhinged by the year, while Odam bounced from label to label, his eccentricities and unwillingness to compromise keeping him forever on the fringes.

But in that fateful year of 1975, in a dusty El Paso record shop, two shooting stars collided. Hasil and Odam, kindred spirits in the realm of the bizarre, hatched a plan to stage a concert unlike any the world had ever seen. They sweet-talked a local radio station into sponsoring the event and rented out a rodeo stadium, ready to unleash their combined madness upon an unsuspecting crowd.

Their first stop was a dingy bar on the outskirts of town, where they stumbled upon a five-piece cover band tearing through a set of classic rock standards. Hasil and Odam, never ones to miss an opportunity, sidled up to the band during their break. "Boys," Hasil drawled, his eyes gleaming with manic intensity, "we've got a proposition for you. A chance to be part of something big, something that'll go down in the history books." The band, a ragtag bunch of long-haired dreamers, looked at each other skeptically. But when Odam pulled out a wad of cash and started talking numbers, their eyes widened. "We're gonna rent out the biggest venue in town," Odam proclaimed, his voice rising with each word. "And you boys are gonna be our backup band. We'll pay you more money than you've ever seen in your lives. Just get some country western outfits. We are the Everly Brothers, after all." The band, stunned by the offer and the sheer audacity of these two strange men, hesitated for only a moment before agreeing. They were in, come hell or high water.

Next, Hasil and Odam tracked down T-Bone Burnett, the legendary producer and sound man. Burnett, intrigued by the sheer madness of their plan, signed on to handle the sound for the show.

The night of the concert arrived, and the venue was packed to the rafters. A strange electricity crackled through the air as Hasil and Odam took the stage, backed by their newfound band. They launched into a set of pure, unadulterated rock 'n' roll mayhem, their music a primal scream into the face of conformity. The crowd, a bizarre mix of cowboys, hippies, and everything in between, surged towards the stage, drawn in by the raw power emanating from the performers. They danced and thrashed, their bodies moving in a wild, chaotic rhythm.

As the night wore on, the energy in the room reached a fever pitch. The dancing turned into a frenzy of flailing limbs and gyrating hips. Beehive hairdos, carefully constructed earlier in the evening, began to unravel, hairpins flying in all directions. Makeup streamed down faces contorted in ecstasy and abandon. Fistfights broke out in the crowd, men and women grappling with each other in a strange, primal display of aggression and passion. Clothes were torn, revealing skin slick with sweat. Impromptu make-out sessions erupted in the corners of the venue, bodies intertwined in a tangle of lust and madness.

Through it all, Hasil and Odam played on, lost in their own world of sonic chaos. T-Bone Burnett, his face a mask of concentration, worked the soundboard like a mad scientist, coaxing unholy sounds from the speakers as the seven on stage found a strange synergy. As the show reached its climax, the crowd finally boiled over. The line between audience and performer blurred, and soon the stage was overrun with a mass of humanity, all moving to the same wild, pulsing beat.

The authorities, called in to quell the riot, could only stand back and watch in amazement as El Paso tore itself apart in a frenzy of rockabilly delirium. No cameras captured the madness of that night, for no one wanted to remember the time when the city lost its mind.

In the aftermath, as the sun rose over the devastation, Hasil and Odam slipped away, their mission accomplished. They had touched something primal, something dangerous, and the world would never be the same. The band, shell-shocked and exhausted, counted their money and went their separate ways, each knowing that they had been part of something truly extraordinary and inappropriate. And T-Bone Burnett, his ears still ringing from the unholy cacophony, smiled to himself, knowing that he had borne witness to a moment of pure, unbridled rockabilly history.

In the years that followed, whispers of that night would spread through the music underground, a legend passed from one generation to the next. Hasil Adkins and Norman Carl Odam, the twin prophets of rock 'n' roll insanity, had left their mark on El Paso, and the city would never forget nor speak of the night it went insane.

[voiceless-terror]

Perhaps the "stop moving!" Prompt for Jon, where he's been kidnapped by yet another avatar group and they're trying to subdue him but he's fighting too much so they break something like his leg or wrist to make him stop 👀

Hello! I’ve been thinking about this prompt for a while, and I decided to set this during the Circus kidnapping (hope you don’t mind!) and tackled it with another prompt, this one by @give-me-a-minute-to-think who asked for “ a post-circus-kidnapped fic. like, how martin and timdiscover jon was kidnaped and their reaction (espically tims.) we see in canon martin addressing that fact, but not literally anyone else. i just want some complicated relatinship and tim to be nice to jon even a little.” Hope you two enjoy!

Jon’s pretty sure bones weren’t meant to bend that way.

It was his fault, really. He shouldn’t have put up a struggle. He should’ve realized the futility of his situation and yielded to the rough, unfamiliar hands forcing him into the van. But Jon’s nothing if not stubborn, so a few flailing arms and weak kicks were to be expected. And the retaliation, of course, should’ve also been expected.

“Stop movin’,” came the gruff voice of the delivery man, with a face so nondescript Jon could forget it if he looked away for only a second. He gives one last weak slap to the hands on his body. Wrong move.

A sickening crack could be heard along with a sharp cry- Jon’s cry, because the pain currently emanating from his one good wrist is white-hot and agonizing. His eyes are blurring and the inside of the van is stifling in its darkness, but even he could see that hands and wrists weren’t supposed to look like this. He bites back the nausea and sags back into the rough hands, rendered frozen by the pain. There’s a chuckle, low and sinister, and one of the men begins to whistle the tune from the calliope.

And then his arms are yanked behind his back and the pain reaches a dizzying crescendo as his body decides it’s had enough, and sinks into oblivion.

_______

He spends his days being touched.

Cold hands and a face with a permanent smile. Sometimes there’s more of them, as if he’s a spectacle to be watched and studied. The Strangers like to learn about bodies, foreign as they are to them. Nikola enjoys narrating the process, poking and prodding at the bruises and burns and the strange, twisted hands. He doesn’t bite back his gasps and whimpers, he’s gagged, but Nikola likes to hear them. Likes to hear the wordless grumble of his voice, rendered mute and unintelligible. 

The weeks go by, he loses hope. He’s not there much anymore, he’s somewhere else, a place where the pain can’t reach him. He’s back in Georgie’s apartment, the Admiral purring in his lap. He’s back in Research with a smiling Tim and a woman he imagines to be Sasha. He even thinks back to Martin’s lunches a few months ago with a sort of fondness. People talked to him, people cared. People worried when he was gone. 

Every once in a while, his daydreams are interrupted by the sting of bones knitting together wrong or the itching flare of infected tissue. He starts to think of his eventual skinning as a sort of blessing in disguise; Lord knows he’s wanted to scratch himself out of it more than once. He just wishes they would hurry it up, not draw it out so much. Shouldn’t he be ready by now?

And then Michael comes. He feels a strange, manic strength return to him at the promise of a story, even if it ends in his own demise. I want to know. Tell me, tell me. The Eye’s gaze doesn’t reach him, but the power it’s planted within him grows. By the end, he feels strong enough to reach for the door handle himself, ignoring the pain that raising his arm causes. 

It’s locked. His one salvation is gone. But then Michael is too, and Helen gives him a different sort of hope. One that lands him directly in Elias’s office. 

His injuries are ignored in favor of a more pressing threat- Melanie. The only thing that keeps him standing and lucid is the remaining strength he siphoned from Michael’s statement. But it’s an empty, sickening vigor, one that’s sure to leave him feeling more drained than ever once it fades. Elias says nothing as he stumbles after Melanie with a limping pace, arriving some five minutes after her. She’s sitting at her desk, silently steaming when Jon makes his way in the office, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

“Jon!” Martin’s bright voice pipes up. “You’re back! We were wondering…” His voice trails off as he takes in Jon’s appearance, dirty and gaunt and yet shining with a strange sheen. A thousand showers won’t erase the feeling of those cold, slimy hands on him, Jon knows. Tim’s head pops up from his desk and even he looks a bit concerned; it’s the most positive feeling he’s shown Jon in ages. 

“He was kidnapped, apparently,” Melanie drawls, and Jon doesn’t take her ambivalence to heart. She feels trapped like the rest of them. And Jon’s safe now, so what does it matter? What does any of this matter?

“K-Kidnapped?” Martin sputters, making his way over to his side. Jon flinches back unconsciously, gripping tightly at the wall and Martin stops in his tracks, his face softening. “We didn’t- nobody told us-”

“It’s fine,” Jon croaks, though they all know it isn’t. “It was- it was the Circus. A-And I’ll tell you about it-” he nods in Tim’s direction, seeing his wide-eyed stare out of the corner of his eye.”-as soon as I have a rest, if that’s alright.”

Martin casts a critical eye over him, his gaze coming to rest at the stiff way in which he holds his arms. “Seriously? I think you should go to the hospital, Jon. You look-”

“I’m fine now,” Jon assures him- he’d wave away the concern if he could lift his arm at all. “Just- just a moment, please.”

He limps to his office and they let him, their eyes reminding him of those curious mannequins and the way they stared and dissected him as if he were a cadaver on display. You’re not there anymore, he tries to reason as he collapses into his office chair. There’s a statement on his desk and he wonders if it was Elias or one of his assistants who placed it there, just waiting for him to come back. He’s so hungry.

But opening the file is agony. His burned hand cries out at any touch, and his crooked one doesn’t cooperate. Still, he forces the movement and the tape recorder clicks on for him, a move that usually chills him but now feels like a small mercy.

The words spill from his lips, natural and all-consuming. It doesn’t energize him as much as Michael’s direct account, but it certainly goes down easier, untainted by the jagged edges of the Spiral. He only realizes at the end that the statement was written in French, a language he doesn’t speak. Another development. Elias would be proud. Probably is, sitting up there in his office. And in perfect and non-coincidental timing, his email pings with a message from the man himself, informing him of his new flat, the keys to which are in his bottom drawer.

A new flat. How considerate. He tries not to think of the lonely, unprotected darkness that awaits him there. No Georgie. No Admiral. That’s probably for the best, he thinks. You wouldn’t want to endanger them.

Martin knocks, startling him out of his maudlin thoughts. He’s got tea and biscuits and Jon is struck by not only how much he missed the normalcy of the act, but how horribly hungry he is. For real food. He almost feels giddy with the realization. 

“Thank you, Martin.” He’s rewarded with a tired smile and more questions. More apologies. He’s been reading statements. Jon worries about this, but Martin brushes it off. Jon keeps his arms resting on his lap, out of Martin’s sight. He gives non-answers to his inquiries and he can tell Martin’s frustrated- he only wants to help, but Jon won’t let him. They end the conversation at a strange but polite stalemate, a promise that there will be time for them to talk. He’s surprised Martin lets him go like this, but perhaps he’s realized what Jon already did all those weeks ago.

He’s beyond saving.

And then he’s gone again, back to that big room with those terrible waxworks and that strange, lilting tune and the faces that were wrong, the voices that were stolen. Everything echoed, even the tiniest of whimpers. And the laughter. He wants to curl up and make himself small, hide under the desk but his limbs are stiff and immovable, glued to his seat. His breaths start to come in small, tremulous gasps when another voice speaks up from the doorway.

“The Circus?”

Tim. Jon meets his eyes, attempting to get his emotions under control. You’re not there anymore. You’re back, you’re safe.

“A month you were gone,” Tim’s stomping over to his desk and Jon pushes his chair back, trying to create space but all Tim does is collapse into the chair across from him, heaving a sigh. He hasn’t sat there in ages. “Fuckin’ Elias. Where did they have you?”

Jon slumps in his seat, the tension in his frame somewhat easing. “It was a Wax Museum. I-I think that’s where they’ll be attempting the Unknowing.”

“That’s a lead, then.”

“Yeah,” Jon let out a weak chuckle. “At least something good came out of this.”

Tim’s eyes go dark. “Don’t joke about that.”

Jon nods, slightly taken aback by the fervor of the words. “S-Sorry.”

“What did you see? What happened?” He’s leaning forward now, his interest getting the best of him. Jon opens his mouth; he plans to answer- he could describe the waxworks, the van that took him away, the layout of his prison- but that’s not what comes out.

“They wouldn’t- they wouldn’t stop touching me,” he says, his voice fading to a whisper with each word. “Everyday. She came in and she smiled and she kept talking about my skin and touching me and I-I-” And once again he’s back there, cold hands on his face and mocking voices in his ear and it’s wrong, so wrong-

A hand rests on his shoulder and he rears back, an automatic response of revulsion as his heart stutters in his chest. But it’s not a smiling mannequin, it’s Tim. Tim, who’s kneeling by his chair so he doesn’t loom, whose hands are warm and real, flesh and blood. He’s staring down at Jon’s lap, where his arms lay crooked and burned and broken. Useless.

“They needed me to stop moving,” he whispers, as if it’s a valid explanation. Tim’s jaw is clenched. It’s a barely concealed rage and Jon feels guilty that it scares him so much. And yet, in spite of that anger, or perhaps because of it, he takes the hand from his shoulder, gentle and slow so Jon can see the path of his movements. He puts two fingers to the crooked arm, an impossibly soft movement as he leans in to inspect the damage. 

And there’s no ulterior motive behind it. It’s just a touch, careful and concerned, probing lightly at his arm like he’s something fragile that Tim doesn’t want to break. He feels a tightness in his chest that for once doesn’t have fear as its source.

“I would’ve looked for you. If I’d have known.”

Tim says the words more to his lap than to him. And yes, he suspected that if Tim knew the Circus had him, he would’ve looked. But it wouldn’t have been for him. His presence would only be incidental. Tim’s staring at his arm as if the power of his gaze could knit it back together right and whole. His hand remains in place, and Jon wonders if it’s for Tim more than him. It’s as if he has to be reminded that Jon’s real, that he’s here.

“I need to tell you something.” The words are loaded with import. “But not now. Are you still staying with your friend?” Jon blinks at the change in subject.

“N-No. I have a new flat, but-”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Tim’s suddenly all business, rising to his feet and looking down at Jon with a face that allowed for no argument. “Not with this Circus business. You can stay at mine, after you go to A&E. You’re not okay.”

Jon stares down at his lap, all fight leaving him. “I know.”

He lets Tim take control, lets him do that aggressive sort of care-taking he was known for in the earlier days of their friendship. It’s not the same; there’s no gentle words, no teasing but stern instruction. Just a silent tending that feels familiar all the same. Tim’s the one who speaks to the doctors, who listens to their instructions and later explains to Jon what’s going to have to be done in the coming days, as if he were a child. He knows it’s going to be bad, painful. But Tim keeps his voice level and Jon is somehow reassured. When they get to his flat and Jon’s warm and medicated and settled on the couch, he asks the question and Tim answers, his voice fluid and his words made eloquent in their grief. And Jon understands.

Tim doesn’t let him sleep on the couch. He’s curled up in the bed under a mountain of blankets and he pretends not to notice Tim standing in the doorway like some sort of sentinel. 

“I would’ve looked.” He repeats the words as if trying to convince himself of their veracity. “If I’d have known.”

Jon closes his eyes and tries to believe him.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135263

[janekfan]

What about Jon, crying frustrated tears back either pre Canon or in S1 and Tim comforting him and helping out until the breakdown has passed, contrasted with Jon, crying frustrated tears either from being so overwhelmed or from something Tim did in seasons 2/3????

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581069

Finally! Sorry it took so long!! <3

It was cold. Of course it was, it had to be to protect the documents packed in boxes floor to ceiling all around and everywhere he looked there were more and there was no way he could do this!

Inhale, exhale. Calm down.

He’d have to remember to bring a spare jumper so he could work because as it was now his fingers were too numb to work properly and when he tucked them under his arms it only made him feel worse. Made him feel small and alone. Reminded him of a lonely childhood.

Stop it.

But Jon didn’t know where to begin. He could pretend. He could keep his assistants busy with real work, that wasn’t a problem but what was he to do? What did an Archivist do, really? Archive? Organize? How? When everything was a giant, muddled mess filed, a generous term, in no real order or catalogue he’d been able to understand. It was all just.

Overwhelming.

A splash of wet warmth collided with his wrist and embarrassed, Jon scrubbed hastily at the tears streaming down his cheeks. This was, he was stupid. Stupid. He should be able to handle this. At the end of the day, wasn’t it just shuffling papers around? Putting them in some semblance of order that only had to make sense to him? It had certainly worked for Gertrude. The sorrow and frustration came anyway, falling from his eyes and heating his skin and he was so caught up in his own discomfort that by the time he processed someone entering his office, it was too late to hide.

He tried anyway.

“Oh, Tim. Yes. Wh’what can I do for you?” It was a useless misdirection; Tim was sharp eyed and protective and honestly, it was a relief to see him because if Jon was going to continue crying (and it didn’t seem like he would be stopping anytime soon) there was no one better.

“Jon? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” And the tears which he’d managed to slow, came back full force and Jon tucked his chin to his chest and shook. “Ah, hey now, can’t be as bad as all that.” Gentle, Tim tugged him close, holding him around his shoulders and allowing him to bury his hot face in his stomach. “You’re alright. Whatever it is, we’ll help, okay, Boss?” A palm swept up and down the seam of his spine. “We’re a team! We can do anything if we’re together.” Jon pulled in a hitched and shuddery breath, nodding resolutely. Tim allowed him a few more quiet moments before ushering him out of his office where Martin and Sasha were certainly not waiting for them. Martin approached first, compassion shining clear in his expression, and took up his hands.

“You're freezing! Here, come with me. I’ll make you some tea and get you warmed up straight away.” Martin would hear nothing of his protests, pulling him gently away to the breakroom, warm fingers curled around his own. Just this once, Jon would let it happen, the reassuring glow of being surrounded by friends soothing the remnants of panic that had overwhelmed him so thoroughly before Tim found him. They were speaking easily around him about nothing important and Jon let himself drift in the current of their familiar voices.

It was cold down here. And dark, though Jon could See just fine, like he couldn’t hear them but Knew they were searching and feared the worst, that he’d gone hunting in the streets for first-hand accounts of terror. He welcomed the chill seeping its way beneath his skin, numbing his fingers and toes. It meant some part of him was at least close to human.

He reveled in the weird, sharp hunger that gnawed on tender nerves, appreciated the gravity of it and let himself sink into the deep, syrupy ache. He's on the brink. Can feel it in the heavy throbbing in his chest, behind his heart, taking up every empty space and making it difficult to breathe. The weight of his mistakes he supposed, a breadcrumb path he could follow all the way back, beginning with accepting the Head Archivist position instead of walking away. Then again, he’d never known when to stop and that didn’t seem like it was going to change anytime soon; that need for answers, to understand, to connect every dot, to soothe the sting of losing all his friends in favor of embracing a monster.

But Lord he missed them and they were right there. They just weren’t there for him anymore and he had only himself to blame.

Jon doesn’t ask for comfort, he’d be the first to admit he didn’t deserve any and is...content he thinks is the word, to wait until Tim and Martin and Melanie and Daisy and Basira decide he’s suffered enough to prove his worth and let him back in. It was cold down here. It was colder alone and the temptation to give in was so strong if only because he’d be warm again and he’s so, so tired of being lonely.

But he could get something nearly as good. Recognition that something happened to him, that he was still here, still Jon even if he was unwanted, there was enough of him left to hate. He knew how to be that. He'd always been that. Static, now always a low, persistent hum in the back of his mind, shoved forward suddenly with the Knowledge that Tim had decided to look in the tunnels.

Tim wanted to hurt him and he wanted to be hurt. To let it assuage the guilt even for a moment.

Jon already Knows he's spoiling for a fight.

Of course he was the one who would find Jon. Arse is mere meters down the tunnel and leaning with his back against the wall, arms hanging loose over knobby knees and looking for all the world like someone had kicked his puppy.

And what right did he have when he was the cause of all this fear and paranoia and death.

“Tim.” Bland recognition and it sent a shiver racing up his spine because it wasn’t like he had to turn and check, not with his spooky powers. No. He just knew everything now, didn’t he? How convenient. Tim could barely reconcile the figure in front of him with the friend who used to work with him in Research. This Jon was a slip of a man. An intruder he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. This Jon was lies and secrets and silvery scars mapping out the tragedy he’d led them all into willingly in his search for more and more and more. Damn the consequences, never content to let things be. No. This Jon was disorder and disarray, wild curls and no tie and the buttons leading up to his rust stained collar undone. There was dirt caked under the nails of his unbandaged hand and cobweb mingling with the premature grey in his hair and the nervous, twitching energy, the inability to stay still, conspicuously absent.

This Jon was a stranger who didn’t care who he harmed.

This Jon threw them all away like they were less than rubbish and the only way Tim could stomach interacting with him was behind a mask of contempt and hostility.

“Thought you’d be out looking for victims.” Involuntarily his lips curled up in a sneer.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Meticulously enunciated and condescending, strange eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. It angered him that Jon wouldn’t look at him. He could at least have the decency to look him in the face when he lied to him.

“Why are you down here anyway? Hiding? Plotting?” Jon snarled in response, low and dark, brows knitted in scorn.

“And what business is that of yours?” Bare more than a keen hiss and all Tim heard was an invitation to the party because it was so much easier on his conscience to paint Jon as deserving rather than admit he might be as much a victim here as the rest of them. Such a convenient target to aim at, to focus the knife edged anger and rage and agony at and Jon is so good at pushing every button. It was like he wanted this. Wanted to fight.

“Someone has to keep track of you and your secrets! Your lies!” Tim closed his eyes and tugged on his hair. “They’re killing us and you don’t even care!”

“You don’t know that.” Well now he had his attention and the flash of unnatural viridian had to be a trick, a reflection.

“I don’t need supernatural powers to know you!” He saw the hit land in the way Jon’s expression slipped and Tim felt good, the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins was heady and strong. “You’re running. From everything. And it all started when you began running from us.”

“I’m not.” At this point, Tim wasn’t sure Jon was capable of standing because surely he wouldn’t take this sitting in the dust and he didn’t care. This was the most he’d felt since this all began. He didn’t want to give it up. Not yet. Not before he’d made Jon understand.

“You're not even trying!” He spat, watching his shaking hands curl into fists, watching shadows soak into the bandages. “You just let things happen to you--”

“Oh yes, Tim!” Hurling his name like a curse, Jon stared up at him, narrow chest heaving fast. “I just let the Circus have me. I just let Daisy beat me unconscious and threaten to put me down.” For a moment, Tim thought he saw tears glittering on his face. “What do you know about how hard I'm trying?” The whole of him was shaking now, trembling as he sucked down noisy breaths. “Always sulking about this place! Maybe if you’d been paying better attention you’d have noticed Sasha was gone!” He collapsed against the wall, lazy grin carving up his face. Like he’d won the game. Landed the finished blow. “You may claim to know me. But clearly, you never knew her.” Lunging with a hoarse cry, Tim snatched him up by his collar, so close to the healing slash crusted with old blood bisecting his throat.

He only smiled wider. Manic. Frantic. Fingers grasping automatically at his wrists and Tim could feel sticky warmth marking his arm.

"Go on then! I know you want to.” Jon was whispering, words tripping over themselves in his haste to spit them out. “You can't stand me. Just like Daisy can't stand me. You want this. I Know yo--"

An echoing crack followed after the back of Tim’s hand collided with Jon’s mouth.

Replaced soon after by blessed quiet broken only by Jon’s harsh and strangled panting.

Tim dropped him back to the floor. Shaken. Disgusted. He didn’t know with whom. Maybe both of them.

"You never shut up."

Jon tongued the cut on his lip while Tim watched a bead of ruby so dark it was almost black roll down his chin and drip down onto the white fabric of his rumpled dress shirt where it would dry and age and match the rest that was there before whatever this was. He didn’t bother wiping it away.

“Feel better?”

“You know I don’t.”

Shaking out his hand, Tim collapsed beside him in silence, staring resolutely ahead, lips pressed thin until Jon’s head tipped slowly forward, chin coming to rest on his collarbone and smudging more red. Even in his peripheral vision Tim recognized it for what it was and knew if he looked properly he’d see tears steadily falling from his damned eyes despite how hushed he remained. He peeked anyway, witnessed him cave in and bring arms up to hug himself in a desperate bid to hold his pieces together. But he doesn't look at Tim. Doesn't reach for him like he used to.

"I am trying." He whispered, voice immeasurably limned with exhaustion.

Like a switch had been flipped, he was Jon again. Tired and drawn. Overwhelmed and lost and isolated. Tipped so far over the edge he goaded Tim into striking him because it was the best he could expect. Because at least he had Tim's full attention for a moment. And Tim walked right into it, led easily like a moth to a flame.

What a pair they made here at what might be the end of all things.

Troubled, Tim pulled him roughly into his side, hardening his heart against the whimper of pain and the stiffening of his entire body. Jon was skin and bone. Had dropped at least two stone he couldn't afford to lose. Tim had watched it happen and done nothing.

There were no apologies exchanged and when Tim dragged him stumbling into the light of the Archives, no one commented on the split lip or the new bruise or the blood dried and flaking that traced his jaw.

Jon was just a stranger.

No one cared if he'd been harmed.

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Whumptober 2020 Day 10 - Trail of Blood

Characters: Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Dick Grayson Summary: There was a trail of blood in Wayne Manor. A/N: *cue horror movie style chase scene immediately after this*

Ao3

~~

When Damian woke, he was surprised by how late in the morning it was. His father should have woken him for early training hours ago.

So he was ready to be angry as he stomped to his door. But when he opened it, he couldn’t help but freeze.

There was blood on the floor.

And not just a puddle. A long line of it, thin and browning, meaning it’d been there a while. He glanced down to the right and left, and it seemed to cover the length of the hallway.

That wasn’t good.

He heard the creak of the floor and spun around, fists ready. Cassandra stood there, her hands up in surrender as she turned the corner. He relaxed instantly. “Whose blood?”

She shrugged as she approached. Wordlessly she held her arms out, and Damian frowned. But she wiggled her fingers anyway.

“I don’t want you to…stand in it.” She offered. “And…I’m fast.”

If there’s a threat, I’m a faster runner than you, she meant. I’ll get you to safety.

He pursed his lips for a moment, then sighed, accepting her lift. She held him against her hip, her grip tight, as they traveled down the hall.

“It goes downstairs.” Cass murmured. “I did not follow.”

“Have you seen anyone else?” Damian asked.

“No.” She said solemnly. “You?”

“No. I just woke up.” As they turned the corner, Damian pointed to the first door on the left. “Grayson.”

She nodded and stepped over the blood path. Damian began knocking as soon as they were close enough. He glanced down as they waited. The path didn’t come from here.

His shoulders relaxed a little bit.

A moment later, the door opened to reveal Dick, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey, Cass. Didn’t realize you were in town.” He yawned. As he blinked, he took in the scene in front of him. Of his little sister carrying his little brother. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“We don’t know.” Damian admitted as Cass pointed to the bloodstains on the floor. “We found this.”

Dick looked down and frowned. “Who else is in the house?”

“We don’t know.” Damian repeated. “We’re…checking right now, I guess.”

“Okay. Okay. Both of you stay with me.” Dick ordered as he stepped out of his room. He assumed they came from the hallway where Damian’s room was, so turned in the direction they wouldn’t have come from. The blood trailed continued here. “Tim’s not here, he’s in San Fran, he called last night. Jason I’m pretty sure was in Metropolis. …Steph?”

“At Barbara’s.” Cass supplied.

“Duke?” Damian asked.

“At a friend’s.” Dick answered. “And Alfie’s still in London, right?”

“Should be.” Damian nodded. “Until the end of the week.”

“Okay…” Dick listed, keeping his arm out to the side as he stepped forward. Cass walked carefully behind him. “That leaves…Bruce, right?”

Neither answered. Neither wanted to.

Dick followed the trail of blood with his eyes, and saw it curve towards an open door a little further down the hall.

His heart sank.

It was Bruce’s room.

He turned back immediately, took Cass by the shoulders. “You stay behind me at all times, and listen to every word I say, got it?” Cass and Damian both looked around him, to the blood’s source. “Especially if I say run. You run. Understood?”

Cass hoisted Damian higher onto her hip and nodded. “The blood goes downstairs.”

Dick glanced at it again. She was right, the pattern of the blood was clearly leading from the bedroom, not to it. He nodded again and stepped around her, and silently, the trio went towards the landing.

They stopped there, and listened. There was no sound, not even of a ticking clock. Together, they walked down the stairs, Dick tracking the trail a few feet ahead of them at all times. As they reached the floor, Dick watched the path disappear into the study.

He held his arm out and Cass stopped immediately. He glanced to the front door, then to her, and waited until she nodded in understanding. Damian frowned and shook his head. Dick ignored him and turned back towards the study.

There was no breeze that accompanied the clock door being opened, but Dick’s gut was telling him that it didn’t matter. That something was in the study. Something he wasn’t going to like.

He didn’t have any weapons on him, so just readied his fists instead as he stepped forward. His heart pounding, he kept his eyes on the blood, following its gruesome trail. He didn’t try to hide around the corner, didn’t try to sneak in, just walked into the open doorway, refusing to look up, just following the trail apparently left for them.

The blood led to a foot, which led to a leg, then a bloody torso, where the trail ended, then a bloody, slashed throat. Then Bruce’s wide-eyed, slack-jawed face.

“No…”

There was someone standing behind the body. A trench coat, a hand with a dripping knife, a face full of bandages.

Tommy Elliot.

His grin peeked through his bandages, his manic eyes gleaming as Dick took an involuntary, fearful step back.

“Oops.”

[schrijverr]

Love makes blind

Chapter 3 out of 4

Jonny gets headaches, when the others find out it leads to the revelation that he actually needs glasses. Through the whole process, he and Tim grow closer as xe is there for Jonny.

Getting together, slow burn.

On AO3.

Ships: Jonny d; Ville x Gunpowder Tim

Warnings: There’s a bar brawl. Tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!

A/N: Tim uses xe/xem/xyr pronouns, I myself don’t so if I mess up, I apologize and please point it out to me :)

~~~~~~~~~~

They had reached a planet and Jonny and Tim were looking to cause some trouble. Ashes had caught onto their plan and promptly joined them when leaving the ship.

They wandered around until they found a seedy bar where a fight would be imminent. A bit smaller than they would otherwise go for, but Brian had told them explicitly to be back on time since they weren’t planning on staying for more than a day.

The patrons gave them dirty looks when they walked in and Jonny couldn't help but grin and wave at them, before ordering a bunch of alcohol.

Tim got a table in the center of the bar and they set to working through the bottles as they waited for someone to start shit they could jump on to join, however, all were prepared to start something themselves if it took too long.

“Hey, four-eyes.” apparently they did not have to wait, Jonny thought as he looked around to see what was happening between who.

Once he was turned around the voice spoke again: “Yeah, you. Who do you think you are smug little librarian prick.”

With a shock Jonny realized the halfway to comatose man was talking to him. Just in case he pointed at himself and asked: “Me?”

“Don’t play dumb, nerd.” the man was swaying, “You think you’re so much better than us. Coming in here with your smug little face.”

“Say that again.” a mix of anger and delight at the confrontation was flowing through his veins.

“Smug little four-eyed freak.” the man said, before punching Jonny in the face.

His glasses flew off, but Jonny had a lot of practice in fighting without them, something the man hadn’t counted on when he’d singled him out, and grabbed the man by the throat and punched him in the face until he collapsed.

Tim and Ashes had gotten up as well as Jonny looked around the bar, face splattered with blood and a manic grin plastered on, he grinned: “Who’s next?”

And that was their cue to start, some senseless violence to get the blood pumping.

In the end they had to resort to running to Aurora with law enforcement on their heels as they laughed while the fire spread through the city.

Tims hands clutched two halves of a pair of glasses. Xe had managed to pick them up before they had to flee and although they were broken, xe still held on tight to them.

Back on Aurora Tim handed them to Jonny as xe said: “They’re a bit broken, but they’re fixable, nothing a little tape won’t help until we can get them to Raph or Nastya.”

Jonny looked at the two halves of his glasses, before he turned to Tim with a broken look on his face as he stated: “That man was mad at me for wearing glasses. Why? What is so bad about wearing glasses, there is so much to say about me, but he picked that?”

Tim looked to Ashes for support, but it seemed they had walked on without them. Xe sighed sadly and told Jonny: “I don’t know, Jonny.”

“I don’t wanna wear em anymore. It’s stupid, I deserve to be beaten up for different things.” Jonny stated and dropped the halves, before stomping off.

Xe picked up the glasses again and sighed to himself, there was way too much to unpack there, even if it had just been badly selected phrasing on Jonnys part.

Still, xe took the glasses to xyr room and gently taped them together, before leaving them at Jonnys door, when the other wouldn't let xem in.

No one saw Jonny for a week after that and the glasses remained outside his door. Tim had told the others what had happened when he’d failed to show up for dinner for the third day in a row. Afterwards xe had caught multiple members of the crew outside his door trying to reason with him about the glasses, no success so far.

Then, suddenly, Tim got woken up in the middle on the night by someone knocking at xyr door, xe groaned and called out: “Yes?”

“Can I come in?” it was Jonny, he sounded tired and hurt.

Immediately Tim was out xyr bed and at the door, sliding it open with a bang. Jonny flinched at the sound as Tim asked: “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

The taped together glasses were perched on his nose, but he had his eyes closed as he miserably said: “The headaches came back.” he was near tears, “I thought I could go without them, but I wasn’t strong enough.”

“Oh, poor thing.” Tim sighed, leading Jonny to xyr bed as xe said: “There is no strength connected to this, you can’t help it, you were good enough.”

Jonny shivered beneath xem at the words and allowed himself to be tucked into Tims bed.

“Did you drink enough?” Tim asked.

He shook his head and admitted: “I didn’t want to leave my room and drinking straight from the tab is too much work.”

“Then I’ll get you a glass.” Tim told him gently.

“You’re leaving me?” he asked, still not opening his eyes, but fear in his voice.

“No, I have a glass in my bathroom, I’ll be back in a moment. Here get comfortable.” xe got the glasses of his face and petted the top of his head for a second.

When xe returned with the glass of water, Jonny was softly swaying back and forth with his eyes closed as he hummed under his breath and fiddled with the blanket.

He startled slightly when the bed dipped under Tims weight, but he relaxed when xe said: “It’s just me. Here, hold out your hand and I’ll give you the water.”

Jonny took it gratefully and started to drink, only slowing down when Tim warned: “Small sips, calm down, dear.”

Again a pet name, Tim wanted to call Jonny them so badly, but xe couldn't, still somehow they managed to slip out at the worst times and xe was always too late to stop them from tumbling out of xyr mouth.

However it didn’t seem like Jonny had noticed as xe took the glass out of Jonnys hands and set it down on the bedside table, before crawling up the bed. Xe asked: “You want to talk about it or just lie here for now? Should I do the same as last time then?”

“Would you mind just- yeah, doing the same?” Jonny sounded small and unsure.

Despite knowing Jonny couldn't see xem, xe smiled anyway: “Of course. Just lie down.”

Jonny sagged against the pillow and Tim carefully laid down on top of him, not believing how much Jonny must trust xem, to keep his eyes closed the entire time and to let Tim take the lead to take care of him.

Xe vowed to never break Jonnys trust as xe got comfortable on his chest, pushing xyr hands under Jonnys shoulder blades as xe waited for Jonny to drop off to dreamland, something xe didn’t have to wait long for.

The next morning xe was awoken again, this time by hands carding through xyr hair and soft vibrations under xyr head as soft melodies drifted through the air. Xe sighed and burrowed into the warm chest as xe mumbled: “Five more minutes.”

Someone chuckled, Jonny, xyr mind registered, which was confirmed when the familiar voice said: “Didn’t mean to wake you up, you can go back to sleep.”

The offer was very tempting, but Tim knew xe was lying on top of Jonny cuddling him and it would probably be weird and less than platonic to go back to sleep while knowing that, so xe rolled off Jonny and said: “No, I’m awake, held you captive long enough under me, sorry for that, by the way, you’re allowed to push me off, you know.”

Jonny shrugged: “Didn’t want to, you seemed too peaceful to wake up and it was the least I could do after barging into your room in the middle of the night.”

The events flooded back and Tim cracked open one eye and asked: “You okay? Want to talk about it now?”

“I rather not talk about it, but I’m fine.” he leaned over Tim and gently slapped the nightstand in search of his glasses, putting them back on his face he sighed: “Better get these fixed, seems like I’m stuck wearing them forever.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it I could take them to Raphaella to get them fixed.” Tim offered, an idea forming in xyr mind.

Jonny smiled at xem, glasses crooked on his face, before he said: “That’s sweet, but I’m taking them to Nastya, haven’t seen her in a while and she likes yelling at me for being stupid.”

“As long as you’re sure.” Tim checked in one last time.

“I am.” Jonny said, “Really I’m fine, just hated that and then with the headache it only amplified the badness.” his voice got soft, “Thank you, for letting me stay here again.”

“It’s what friends do.” Tim told him, wishing they were so much more than that.

Meanwhile Jonny nodded, yes, friends, they were just friends. It didn’t matter that Jonny was trying to spend all his time with Tim and get xyrs attention constantly, that xe was the only person beside Nastya he trusted enough to turn to for comfort.

“I’ll get going then, maybe you can fall asleep again.” he told Tim, wishing he could lie down next to xem and curl up in xyr arms again without him being weird, to soothe the ache in his heart that he felt whenever he looked at Tim knowing xe wasn’t his.

Tim waited until Jonnys footsteps had faded, before xe rolled out of bed and got ready to face the day. Xe’d gotten an idea and with Jonny at Nastyas, this was the perfect time.

Xe set off towards Raphaella sneaking into Jonnys room beforehand to snatch up the pair of goggles that lay on the sink next to some of Jonnys make up and other knickknacks.

Once xe had explained xyr idea to Raphaella she’d clapped in her hands and told xem, she could be done in half an hour, since she had made spare lenses just in case.

With the goggles in hand xe set out to find Jonny and give him the goggles. Xe knew that Nastya would probably be holed up in the engine room, so Jonny would probably be there as well. Xe was about to knock, when xe heard Jonny exclaimed: “Xe doesn’t like me like that, you’re delusional, Nastya.”

“No, you’re just too blind to see.” Nastya replied.

“Of course I’m blind, you have my glasses.” Tim could hear the pleased smirk in the statement.

“You’ve become somehow even more annoying since you got glasses.” Nastya told him, “And you’re deflecting, don’t think I wouldn't notice.”

Jonny groaned, before he whined: “You’re just seeing that, because you want to see that. Xe doesn’t care for me like that, didn’t I just tell you xe told me about being friends this morning? Honestly, I thought you were paying attention.”

“I was and I’m not seeing things because I want to. I see them, because I have eyes. It’s quite disgusting how mushy you two are even without being together.” Nastya said, “And as for the friend thing, I would bet xe is just trying to keep it as platonic as possible to avoid making you uncomfortable.”

“Still don’t believe you, provide your evidence.” Jonny told her.

Tim felt hope creeping up xyr body, was it possible that Jonny liked xem back? They were talking about xem that was obvious and it seemed like Jonny wanted xem to like him and that Nastya had caught on to xyr feelings for Jonny and if she would give a good enough answer, maybe Jonny would see it too.

Excitedly xe leaned against the door and waited for Nastyas answer. She sighed: “Why do I need to solve your relationship problems?”

“Okay, one, not in a relationship, so not technically relationship problems. Two, I helped you and Aurora get together, so I think you owe me.” Jonny replied.

“Ugh, maybe.”

Jonny cheered, making Tim smile outside, without realizing xe did, at the happy sound from Jonny.

“So, evidence, right. You want evidence?” Nastya waited for Jonny to confirm, “Lets start with how xe looks at you, if I just saw that I would think you personally created the world just for xem. I can see heart eyes from miles away with xem.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, xe might have metal eyes, but it’s almost like they’re heart shaped.” Nastya confirmed, “Then how xe gets around you, that person goes soft.”

“What, that’s just xem. Xe’s nice.”

“God, you get that same disgusting love-sick look that xe gets.” Nastya groaned, “But no, xe’s not always like that, xe melts when you enter a room. It’s physically visible to see xem sag with mushiness. And then xe also gets all nice with you, xe’s an asshole with everyone else, but xe’ll open doors for you, save you a seat, make sure we have your favourite drink on board. It’s sweet, but also disgusting.”

Tim blushed as she just laid out xyr soul for Jonny to inspect and xe was glad that xe couldn't see Jonny right now. Xe didn’t think xe could take it, if Jonny was weirded out by it.

“Xe really does all that?” Jonny asked, his voice was strange, almost a bit float-y, “Not just being friendly, cause we’re friends?”

“No, Jonny, no, please open your goddamn eyes.” there was a fond undertone in Nastyas annoyance, “Want me to go on?”

“There’s more?” Jonny sounded surprised.

“There’s more?” Nastya mocked him, “Of course there is. Xe’s constantly complementing you about every little thing.”

Tim couldn't see Jonny frown slightly at that. He remembered Tims promise to never make him forget that he was good enough, it made him happy inside to know that xe wouldn't break a promise to him and he didn’t like how Nastya had said it.

“Xe’s keeping a promise, nothing more.” Jonny said.

“What kind of promise was that?” Nastya asked.

Jonny didn’t answer and she rolled her eyes: “Whatever it was, it isn’t exactly platonic to promise someone to complement them constantly.”

“It’s a friend thing.” Jonny insisted.

“Well, it didn’t sound very platonic and just a friend thing when xe talked about you with Ashes.” Nastya exclaimed.

Tim froze, how did Nastya know that? Ashes promised not to tell, they swore on their candle collection.

“How do you know that?” see this is why xe liked Jonny, he asked great questions.

“I was fixing something in the vents and overheard them. I didn’t mean to, but Aurora was hurting.” she had the dignity to sound sheepish.

Quietly Jonny asked: “Is it wrong to ask what they talked about?”

“I mean, probably.” Nastya answered.

It was silent for a few beats, then Jonny said: “No, that would be mean. I know I would hate it, if xe knew I was talking about xem like this.”

“Look at you taking the moral high ground.” Tim could barely hear Nastyas reply over the blood rushing past xyr ears. Xe was breaking Jonnys trust by being here, Jonny had the mind to let xem be, but xe had to go and just listen to him.

Xe swallowed hard and clutched the goggles, before running off as fast as xe could to hide away from Jonny in shame. Xe couldn't believe xyrself, how could xe been so selfish?

While Tim was running away Jonny took his now fixed glasses back from Nastya and said: “Thanks for that. I, uh, I’ll see if I talk to xem.”

“I will never breathe a word of this, if you promise to talk to xem to moment you run into xem.” Nastya replied.

“And if I don’t?” Jonny was a bit scared.

“If you don’t and I have to watch you two dance around each other again, I will tell xem what you told me here, myself.” she answered.

“Promise I will then.” he squeaked and hurried out of the room, before she could do anything.

“Don’t be a stranger, well, be a bit of a stranger, but not too much.” she called out after him.

“Yes, m’lady.” he yelled back, knowing he was out of range.

[black-streak]

Saturday night's alright for fighting (but Sundays are meant for rest) - Curious New Hobbies

Part 11!

My god this took a while to write! Special thanks to @st0rmy-w1th1n and @mysnis (hope this is your correct Tumblr) for bouncing ideas with me and @kceedraws for giving permission to use her breakdancing au as inspiration for this!

Tagsss: @persephonebutkore @emjrabbitwolf @mystery-5-5 @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @fandomkitty8 @dast218 @silvergold-swirl @shizukiryuu . @my-name-is-michell @kurogaya913 @elspethshadow @thecatnipmademedoit @shamefullove @ladylucina28 @crazylittlemunchkin @rayray384 @cassiejaydee @yuulxd @ladysblackcat @naclychilli @caffeinetheory

~---~

They had meant to go the arcade for their date tonight. In fact, they'd even walked in and started scoping out games to play, but alas it wasn't to be.

Within moments of arriving, who else but Damian would single Mari out and immediately tell them to leave.

And of course she protested. In response, Damian only pointed at Jon over at the pacman machine (how dare he, that's the game Marinette was searching for!) and mentioned his lack of ability to keep secrets and suddenly she turned and dragged Tim right back out the door.

Walking down the sidewalk, he side eyed her, considering the best way to start his interrogation.

"So. You trying to keep me secret then?"

"No! Of course not. Just might've forgotten to mention something like… over a month ago."

"And it involves not letting Jon know we were there?"

"Only because he's a nark who would've ruined the fun. And heaven knows Damian and I wouldn't be satisfied with a void bet."

"You made a bet about our relationship with Damian?"

"About your family," she partially corrected.

"Do I even want to know."

"Was supposed to tell you a bit ago so you wouldn't ruin the stakes, so probably not, but im telling you anyways."

Sighing with false exasperation, he gestured for her to continue.

"We have an ongoing bet over how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you and I are together and not Dami and me."

With that, she relayed all the details of their bet and his part in it, manic grin spread across her face as her gait gained a small skip to it. Tim couldn't help but shake his head at her antics, amused despite an itch in the back of his mind saying this wouldn't end well.

"Alright, I'll play along. Honestly, I think you'll both lose. Your predictions are too specific. Too many potential outlying factors."

"True, but we did give set time frames. So at least one part of the bet will absolutely be clear on who won. Plus, I find victory in the fact that Damian didn't think of that possibility. That we'd both be wrong."

"On another note, we need to find a plan b. Anything in mind?" He asked, reaching out and snagging her hand to draw her closer. 

Shrugging, she looked about them, seeing if anything caught the eye. Suddenly Tim stopped, accidentally yanking her back when she kept walking. She let out a sound of protest only to see his eyes locked on the building across the way with a considering look. 

The building was gray brick with no windows, however a neon purple sign to the right of the black wood door declared it "The Underground", a well known club amongst Gotham dancers and while neither were necessarily that, word had gotten around enough for both to have heard of the place before from word of mouth.

"How do you feel about checking it out?" Tim asked, a curious look about his eyes, studying her.

"I'm not opposed to the idea. Little surprised you're interested though," she commented, letting him lead the way inside.

A quick ID check and they were in, the room dark with neon tube lights flashing across different surfaces and strategic spotlights placed to bring attention to the various raised platforms. It was strange actually. The wall directly to the left of the hall they entered from held the bar on a raised level only to slide into a ground level dance floor which was normal enough, however in the opposite corner was a raised platform where different people would hop up to take advantage of the spacing to show off both freestyle and blatantly choreographed moves. Another few spotlight platforms raised up randomly in the floor, but the main focus was a rather large circular one in the center of the place, raised just enough to make it easy to see from anywhere in the place, but not so high as to block the view across the way. These places were the most lit up, allowing the anonymity to the dancers below while allotting the attention to those who choose to step up. Beyond that, there were many crevices and alcoves holding tables into the walls and a small hallway across the way presumably heading to the bathrooms. An upper balcony held only the DJ.

While Mari took in her surroundings, she felt Tim lead her out into the crowds, before turning back to her with a questioning look. Leaning in she spoke into his ear, a spark gleaning her eyes, "You've been before, haven't you?"

"A few times. It's the perfect place to destress without the nonsense of keeping an image. As long as you stay in the crowd, no one cares who you are," he replied, spinning her around before stepping in so her back pressed to his chest.  His hands ghosted down her sides to grasp her hips, starting to guide her into the beat.

For a while, they stayed like that, separating slightly and coming back together to follow different dances as the music flowed and changed around them. Turns out Tim was a surprisingly good dancer. 

Cheers broke out as a new song turned over, the first beats of Bum Bum Tam Tam coming over the speakers drawing attention towards the main platform as a pair jumped up, starting to get into the beat, working around each other only to burst into perfectly synced choreography at the first breakdown, resulting in more cheers. The two dancers would break away after that into a more freestyle, only to flow back into more rehearsed moves once more.

"Wait is that," she trailed off to a groan pressed to her shoulder.

"Yeah. That's them. Didn't know they came here."

As the song came to an end and the two on the platform jumped down, they could only stare as none other than Dick and Kori unknowingly made their way towards them. Tim pulled back from Mari subconsciously, not quite comfortable being so fully on display in front of people who actually knew them. Which made exactly zero sense when considering how much they cuddled in the manor. 

Finally the two spotted them, their grins widening and a new energy emerging as they rushed over. 

"Timothy! Starshine! You guys are here!" Came Kori's exuberant greeting, grabbing them both up in a hug.

"Hey, Mar, Damian not like dancing enough? Had to drag Timmy out?" Dick teased.

"Dami's at the arcade with Jon. And actually, coming here was Tim's idea," she answered amicably, conforming to the rules of the bet and not correcting Dick's obvious assumptions. "That was amazing by the way. You two looked great up there!"

Tim smirked down at her, seeing through her antics, especially now that she'd let him in on the rules of her game. Doesn't mean he couldn't play into it himself, he thought as he wrapped an arm around her waist and placed his chin atop her head.

"She's a great dance partner," Tim mentioned after both Kori and Dick had thanked and waved off Mari's compliments. "Considering learning something more structured with her, myself. Maybe give you two a run for your money."

"You definitely should! I can help with figuring out a style for you two if you'd like!" Kori offered immediately as Marinette turned to look at him in excitement.

"She has to agree first. Who knows, maybe this was a fluke and Mari will never dance with me again," he sighed in defeat.

Marinette turned, practically bouncing in anticipation, "Are you kidding? I'd love to! I want to come here again too."

"Even if you don't take my help with the dancing, I can record you two so you can look back and see for any needed improvements? That's what Richard and I do," Kori further offered up, Dick jumping back in right after.

"Oh yeah, it helps immensely. Especially if you were wanting to perform it on the platforms here."

Tim and Mari met eyes, before coming to an agreement, "Yeah, we'd appreciate that actually."

"Great! We'll set up some time here soon. In the meantime, I could definitely use a drink," Dick stated, looking back towards where he'd originally been headed. Kori grabbed onto Marinette instead, leading her back into the fray of dancers.

"We should invite Stephanie next. She would make a most interesting dance partner," Kori rattled on, suggesting a girls night that Mari agreed to immediately before getting back into the music with her new dance partner of the moment, Tim and Dick rejoining them shortly after. 

The night continued on this way, the four trading off between them, two not aware that it'd become a double date by this point. Eventually parting ways from the two, Tim and Mari made their way back towards his apartment, breathless and happy despite the unexpected interruptions to their night.

"How come we never end up at your place?" He asked suddenly.

"Because my apartment has become workzone number 2. Seriously, the place has essentially become a studio for my work that just so happens to have a kitchen and bedroom. Among other secrets not meant to be divulged… yet."

"Is that pertaining to the mystery of your magic."

"Perhaps."

"Mmm, whenever you're ready, I'll be happy to keep them for you. Though I can't imagine anything bigger than holding two technical gods in your pockets at all times."

"Shhh, don't let them hear you say that!"

He only chuckled, leading her into the complex and up to his penthouse. Silence overtaking them until the door had clicked shut.

"You staying the night, sweetheart?" Tim asked, toeing off his shoes and walking towards his room to get changed.

"Mm, think I might," she replied, following him in and stealing a shirt before wandering into the bathroom to get first dibs on a shower. She still found it lucky that while he might be the shortest of his brothers, she was still small enough to be buried in his clothes. Made it easier for night like these.

Finishing up, she plopped herself on his bad as he went to shower as well. 

Eventually, the door reopened, Tim entering in only pajama bottoms, hair still damp and in his face. She hummed her appreciation, enjoying the view and reaching out to tug him closer.

"Is it weird how comfortable we've become in so little time?" 

"Only if you're uncomfortable with it."

"I'm not."

"Good."

With the affirmation, he picked her up only to lay her out further up the bed. Stretching out at her side, he pressed kisses to her cheek and down her neck, hand trailing against exposed skin, clearly enjoying having her in his home, in his bed, in his shirt.

'Hmm, what were two raging insomniacs to do with the rest of their night?'

… 

Bonus:

Not a week later, after a long discussion with Damian to ensure that Kori was not included in the bet and swearing the alien to secrecy, they asked her to film something for them. A dance they had come with that was just for them. Not anything that could be performed in a club or for anyone to see. Maybe one day they'd post it somewhere or show Dick, but for now, it was theirs alone.

[nocturnaladvocate]

An Archive Party

The night had started innocently enough. Sable’s roommate had reminded them about a party someone was hosting. It was going to be a proper party too, not one of the imitations gringos were always trying to pass as a party. Offhandedly Sable mentioned it to Tim, when he had stopped by for his daily story about the skull. Tim then passed it over to Sasha, who had been itching for a good drinking contest. Sasha knew she was going to rope Martin in this because the poor man had become Jon’s punching bag. As for how Jon found out, and came to them asking for an address was a mystery. At least none of them would stick out, all in varying shades of brown the entire archive staff would blend in with the crowd easily. Their shifts were to end at a similar time, Jon being the last who was meant to leave, but what Elias didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. They cut the day a little short in favor of piling together into the auto that Mercury had waiting outside the Institute.

“Sorry, Mercy. Entire team found out on accident.”

But the driver only laughed, before turning to the three archive workers in the back. “I’m the dd for tonight so don’t worry about anything.” Neb said with a smile turning back to the wheel and the group left the hellscape that was the Magnus Institute, coming to a stop a few blocks away from a nondescript house and as the group came closer the faint sound of music could be heard.

“Jon, it’s gonna be warm. You might wanna ditch the sweater vest.” Sable called over their shoulder, having already turned a work uniform into something applicable to a party.

“I will be keeping my sweater, thank you.” He responded tersely before the quintet came to the front door, opening it to be met with a wall of differing languages all spoken in such a free and casual way that English usually was forced into taking the place of.

Mercury grinned before diving into the fray, pulling Martin after neb, taunting the others as the pair disappeared. Jon bristled at the loss of a member, but was quickly pulled in but the remained archive workers, Sasha and Tim discussing plans and Sable smiling at him.

When  Sasha finally disappeared, lost into the crowd where music hung in the air, voices occasionally intertwining with the notes in that off-key way that always came with smiles and laughter. Sable wrapped a hand around his wrist, gaining the archivist’s attention.

“Take a breather, Jon. You look like you’re twenty seconds from a freakout. Come on, I’ll lead you outside, alright?” Silently he followed their lead, emerging in the cool night air where the crowd was just milling around and talking. He could smell a barbeque somewhere out there, but what it was cooking he couldn’t tell. The hand on his wrist disappeared, but now he was calmer and in a place with so much less noise. It wasn’t that he disliked parties or loud noises, no, it was just that it always overwhelmed him at first, head pounding and the ground swimming and bass throbbing in his chest. But then it became the setting and he was fine, it just took a few minutes. The music from inside muffled itself and he could breathe again, taking a moment to recollect himself. One of his workers seeing that momentary break irritated Jon, but it had been the one least likely to make comment on it, so that was a relief after all. And they were his friends, at least as much as he allowed himself to indulge.

Inside the home, however, the party was thriving. Sasha found the drinking challenge soon enough, the loud jeering called her over easily and really it was shots, tequila. A clean shot. Simple enough, but she would pull the Jaeger bomb at some point, coaxing out the real challenge.  But that could wait, for now. She flashed the group a wide grin, sliding in and stealing a shot from the end of the line, downing it in one and placing it on the table upside down. “Twenty quid says I can drink you under the table. All of you.” The loud and slurred consensus of agreement earned her another shot.

Tim wandered through the throngs of people, drink in hand amd flashing that smile that earned himself the title of most people's workplace crush. And in this moment, there was no exception, for he quickly drew the attention of all. Sable went between their friends before settling close to the music station, waiting for a moment. Waiting for the right moment. A mechanisms song. One-Eyed Jack. Our Boy Jack. Either would do. Both would yank.Jon to center stage.

They watched the crowd, and when that familiar sweater was spotted, Sable changed the music, the always familiar chords ringing in the air as Jon's attention was drawn to the source. He hummed along, despite himself, and upon seeing Sable's shit eating grin he knew this was no accident.

"Why, Mr. D'ville, I believe this to be your cue." They called, eyeing the table where the speakers sat above, mounted on the wall. Jon shook his head, his smile stupidly fond as he climbed the table and fell into his age old persona. His voice rasped as he sang along, becoming Jonny D'ville once more. If only for a little bit. And then the song ended and Sable offered a hand, helping him down. "Find your stride? Treat it like an old concert." They smirked before darting off, leaving him on his own. Amd his own didn't seem too bad, not with the confidence of an immortal space pirate first mate possessing him. And if he saw Sasha drinking and being passed notes of cash or saw Martin dancing with some random man, learning the salsa with a tie wrapped around his head or Mercury watched with a gleeful grin or Tim making his way through the circles of people or Sable causing their usual mischief or pulling Mercury and Tim into dances throughout the night? Well. He wasn't going to say anything. He was allowed to have some fun and so were they.

The night was coming to a close, most of the crowd clearing out and separating on their own paths. Most, but not the archival team and Mercury, not yet. In a couch hidden in the basement, just barely out of sight, Tim and Sasha and Sable had all squished together, the smallest of them in the center. Sleepy mumbles and terrible jokes. 

“Sasha. Sasha. Sasha,” Tim started making grabby hands over Sable before launching into one of his trademark jokes. “Statement Joe Spooky on the topic of Jimmy Magma-” was all he was able to say before the laughter overtook, pulling spams from the three assistants before they all squished more, trying to minimize any space between them because that’s what a friend pile was. It was protecting against being touch starved by virtue of becoming a pile of kittens, except with humans. 

On the upper level Martin, still with his damned tie wrapped around his head and cheeks flushed red, danced with Mercury, even if it was mostly just swaying side to side with music playing in the background. He was wrapped around neb like a kola, mumbling something in the hybrid language his family had created and making softly pleased noises, trying to show his affection in a way that could be accepted. Perhaps there was too much alcohol in his system, still, causing this stupor instead of the manic energy from earlier. But fuck, if he wasn’t pleased with the current events, swaying with a beautiful person in his arms and tangling his hands in nebs hair. 

Jon, still with remnants of D’ville in him, came to the basement, finding three of his archists laying in a pile of limbs and warmth. He sat in front of the couch that trio had collapsed on, legs folded together, and barely tugging Sable’s hand before being met with tired brown eyes. Eyes that sometimes glinted with mischief or knowledge they shouldn’t have. Eyes that outside of the dark and dust of the archive and in the sun held glints of tawny in the usual dark umber.

“Would you care for a dance?” He asked, voice still having the rasp that separated Jonny from himself, however minimal the presence was now. Groans of protest came from Tim as they tried to disentangle from his lazy grip, arms eventually falling limp as Sable emerged from the pile. Carefully he stood once more, leading them upstairs where music still floated lazily in the air, pulling them close and resting his head on their shoulder, for a moment at least before taking a step and leading a spin, Sable easily passing under his arm. 

But the night had to come to a close, the host finally kicking them out. Jon and Sable descended a level to the remaining archive workers, rousing them from slumber. Hands reached out for the normally third member of their group, instead latching onto both Sable and Jon. Sasha and Tim both draped over their smaller compatriots, allowing themselves to be led to the auto where Martin and Mercury waited, the former of which climbed in shotgun seeing the swarm.

The swarm of four then piled into the back, Sable and Sasha each half on Tim's lap and Jon nearby. Neb, made way to the one flat the location of was known for sure, Mercury's own. Inside awaited a fort built of most of the blankets in the flat, a remnant of the night before. Before it could be accessed however, Mercury would fumble with the key in the lock, surrounded by archive workers in varying states. The door opened and in fell the horde, piling into the flat and finding areas of situation inside the fort. Where shoes and outer layers were shucked did not matter in that instant, sleep did.

Inside the fort it appeared a tangle. A heap. But divisions were clear enough. Tim slept between Sasha and Sable, legs tangling with them both. Sasha had an arm draped over Tim's chest, hand curling into Sable's sleeve and keeping their hand close. Jon slept with his head on Martin's stomach, a hand outstretched and entertwined with Sable's. And Mercury slept in the center of it all, touching the entire entourage in one way or another.

When morning came, it would be different. The peace would be broken and everyone's lives would return to the typical, but the night would be remembered fondly enough. Morning would come and ruin the moment, but locked away and away from the Entities was a moment of peace. For now, at least.

[incoherentbabblings]

On the Twelfth Day (1/2)

AO3 Link Here.  TimSteph Christmas Fluff.

It had been an experiment, or so Tim had said. He’d wanted to try actually going for the Twelve Days of Christmas with Stephanie. Six gifts each, one a day, alternating until the 6th of January. He’d had enough foresight to bring it up to Stephanie back in November. She had narrowed her eyes suspiciously but had acquiesced.

“Okay, fine. But I get to decorate the flat as obnoxiously as I want?”

“Sure.”

Stephanie had been building up a steady supply of tinsel, paper, baubles and lights the whole year round. She had an excellent eye for deals, and was the most aggressive haggler Tim had ever seen. He was kind of dreading seeing what the end result would be.  Tasteful festive cheer was in doubt.

“From December first to January sixth?”

“December fourteenth.” He countered.

“Hmph. Seventh.”

“Deal.”

“So, we give six presents total. No more?”

“No more.” Tim prodded her shoulder then. “And no fussing over price. Buy what you can afford, I’ll do the same.”

“But that’s not –” She cut herself off, tutting and watching him, knowing he would immediately start arguing back. She was in her final year of college and part time library worker, he was on his third year of being a WE board member. Budgets were going to vary wildly. Still, she had that thing... and she had been working on...

Her blue eyes had glimmered with ideas, and she smiled.

-1-

On Christmas day itself, Tim immediately broke the agreement. They had invited Crystal to spend the day with them, to which she had agreed, but before they could sit down to the dinner Tim had obsessed and sweated over she hadn’t received a call from the hospital, requiring her to come in. Tim had flipped over his card to Stephanie once Crystal had left, in which a book voucher had fallen out.

“Tim!”

“This doesn’t count!” He’d pushed. She’d sneered, then kissed him, dropping the first 'real' gift in his lap. Holding out the first gift, Tim noted that this one was severally lumpy, and covered head to toe with tape. He ripped into it, Steph chewing her lip anxiously. Bubble wrap greeted him then, so he looked her in the eye as he continued to tug off extortionate amounts of plastic.

Two fat European robins, made of painted plaster, lay within. One wore a red and white scarf, the other a similar pair of earmuffs. Tim smiled. They were adorable.

“This us?”

“Maybe. They can sit on the windowsill. Watching over the city.”

Tim stood up and did as she suggested, the two birds looking out from the fifth floor where their apartment was. It was a dark and dank Christmas day, and as per the rules of the Gotham criminal underworld, Tim and Stephanie would have to head out in the evening. For the moment, within their overly warm apartment, with its bright lights and decorations, Tim and Stephanie didn’t mind so much. Tim squished his girlfriend’s cheeks and kissed her puckered lips.

“Merry Christmas.” She tooted, face still cradled tightly.

-2-

The day after Christmas, Alfred insisted on putting on a large family dinner for Boxing Day, whatever that was, which had resulted in the entire family being present at the manor for one meal. It had gone as smoothly as to be expected, with many a bickering, slapping and food flinging ensuing during the meal. Alfred had sighed sadly, Bruce had glared holes into the turkey and ham. Otherwise, it had actually gone fairly smoothly.

Cassandra had insisted on ‘helping’ Stephanie open her gift of the day. Sat on the marble floor underneath the eighteen foot Christmas tree within in the entrance hall, Tim paced back and forth and Cassandra snatched the neatly wrapped box from Stephanie’s arms.

“I can open it Cass.”

She only hummed in response, ripping the paper off the reveal a cardboard box. Growing frantic at being denied Stephanie's gift, Cassandra tugged and tore and the brown tape sealing it shut, more desperate to see what was inside then Steph was.  

“Oh! Pretty!” She cried out when she finally broke through. More than a little miffed, Stephanie took the box out of Cassandra's hands, huffing and puffing. Peering in, her foul mood was forgotten, and she squeaked.

“Roller skates!”

Ripping then out the box, protective paper flying, she held their weight in her hands, looking at the dark blue leather, beaming. Her head whirled upwards to Tim, and she shook with happiness.

“Put them on.” Cassandra insisted.

Tim shook his head. “Uh, maybe outside.”

“No. It’s raining. Here’s fine.” Grabbing Stephanie’s foot, Cassandra yoinked her leg upwards, tugging off her fluffy slippers. Stephanie lay on the floor, more than a little taken aback at Cassandra’s aggressive man handling. Tim side-eyed the entrances to the main hall, fearful that either Bruce of Alfred would walk in at precisely the wrong moment.

Cassandra laced on the boots then pushed Stephanie’s legs down. She was smiling, but the manic look in her eyes told Tim that she was knowingly going to get them both in trouble. He sighed. The present had been for when the weather improved.

Still, Stephanie got to her feet and pushed off, rolling along the main hall with a practised grace. She stumbled every now and then, simply not used to the weight or dimension of the shoe yet. Cassandra clapped her hands in joy, hooting at Stephanie as she began to show off. Skating backwards and doing little jumps, she whirled around on the marble floor.

“Good present, Tim!” His sister exclaimed.

“I love them!” Stephanie called out.

Tim was about reply that she was welcome, but Bruce instead had appeared at the top of the stairs, and so Tim could only yelp Bruce’s name instead.

Stephanie tried to turn to see where Bruce was but lost of her footing, falling flat on her face.

Bruce watched and Tim and Cassandra rushed over to pull Stephanie to her feet. Pulling her up by an arm each, Stephanie whipped her hair back, laughing loudly.

“These are so great Tim! Thank you!”

“Welcome.”

She laughed a bit more, stumbling as she did so, feeling nervous with Bruce’s wordless gaze on her. Finally, her laughter died down, and she hung from Tim and Cass’ arms, legs splayed out in front of her, bum several inches off the floor.

“Please help me take them off.”

-3-

“My turn today.”

Tim opened up a squishy packet to find a dark blue body warmer within. He looked up at Steph. She shrugged, taking it from him and holding it up. He slid his arms in and she zipped it up.

“You always look cold to me in winter. You don’t wrap up enough.”

He threw the hood up, which was lined with faux fur.

“Thanks, mom.”

“Hah!”

-4-

It was another card this time, and when she opened it, the card contained a printout of an email.

She frowned at she read it, not entirely comprehending. She looked back at the top of the page, and her mouth dropped open.

“Uh! This place is fancy. And you got a table for New Year’s Eve?”

“Ohhhhh, yeah. Who’d you think you’re dating?”

Lowering the piece of paper, she looked at their wardrobe. “I’ll need a new dress for dinner…”

Tim shrugged unhelpfully. “Maybe.”

She gulped.

-5-

The New Year was only two days away, and Steph was sat in her usual work space, on the floor of the living room, peering at her college notes. She was honestly trying to be good, to revise over the Christmas period, but it wasn’t really going in. Honestly, she was just feeling sleepy, but in a content, happy sort of way, rather than grouchy and stiff. Blinking, she welcomed the distraction of Tim moving over to sit next to her on the rug. He was holding her gift to him. This one was much more neatly wrapped than the first, in another cardboard box.

“Any hints?” Tim asked, picking at the corners.

Steph smiled, resting a hand on her chin and her elbow on the table.

“It’s something I thought you’d maybe want to pick up again. Like you did for me with the skates.”

Tim opened the box to see a small instant camera in a bright shade of red gleaming up at him.

“Oh! No way!”

Pulling it out, he flipped through the instructions and set it up while Stephanie watched patiently. He turned the lens towards her. She smiled with her mouth shut, and the flash lit up the room. From the top emerged the print showing Stephanie looking dishevelled, with her blonde hair in a messy bun and wearing an oversized jumper and leggings.  

“Perfect.” Tim smiled at the image, reaching for a pen to date it.

-6-

“So!” Tim started, hopping over the back of the sofa. Steph blinked, looking up from the book she had bought with Tim’s voucher. A cup of tea lay untouched on the table. Tim was holding another present. “This is also for tomorrow.”

Excited at the thought of the promised fancy dinner, Steph ripped off the wrapping with fervour, and squealed at the dress that was within. She threw aside her book and sprinted out of the room to try it on.

Tim waited a painfully long minute. He stared at the tea and thoughtlessly picked it up and gulped it down.

“It fit?” He yelled.

Stephanie kicked the living room door open, having gone the whole way by putting on a pair of heels and quickly pinning up her hair. It was a green tartan dress, with a little bow on the waist and a puffy skirt. Kara had suggested it.  Stephanie rocked back and forth, holding her arms wide.

“Ta da! It’s so cute! Thank you, Tim!”

Tim tried not to squeal. She did look very pretty.

[batb1tch]

It’s my boy’s birthday so here are some Jason Todd head-canons 🎉

Probably 3rd to last (Alfred and Bruce) on the list of ‘understanding internet slang’ in the household. He died and just sort of fell behind on the times (including memes, pop culture references,etc..) I know he’s known for making snarky quips and sarcastic comments but I have no doubt his siblings would call him out on his outdated references. It’s likely it’d really piss him off too like, knowledge is really everything to this kid and here he is with a group of teenagers who are always on top of shit (Steph, Tim, Duke, even Dick) and he doesn’t know what they’re talking about the majority of the time. Can’t figure out how to use Twitter or Snapchat and he does not have the patience to learn. It’s a genuine sore spot for him regardless of the humorous side.

Has an inner city accent that will never leave him. Still pronounce “on” like “awn” and frequently drops his r’s (which Bruce acts like he hates but really he finds it endearing.) Drops his “ing”s like “nothing” is “nothin.”

Fantastic chef, learned from the best. Very good at making something out of nothing and making it last. Steph has been showing him how to can things like fruit and vegetables. She’s basically just enabled his doomsday prepping behavior.

Speaking of, if you think Bruce is bad with the backup plans (yes there is always a b c d — z) where do you think Jay got it from? Absolutely anal about planning and contingencies. Has a backup for his backups.

Has a small hoard of books hidden in an end-table back at one of his safe houses. His favorite classics (mostly gifted by Bruce.)

Loves the smell of paper.

Definitely could use them but refuses to get glasses. Babs teases him for his squinting when she gets the chance.

“Just join the club book-worm, promise it won’t ruin your badass reputation.”

Jason ~squinting~ “I’d rather die....again.”

Collects cool bookmarks.

Definitely names his guns.

Favorite meal is literally any Spanish/Mexican dish followed by a good chili dog & a coke.

Can pack away enough food to feed a horse and keep going, not even Bruce knows how he does it. Alfred acts like he’s a pain in the ass to cook for but loves feeding him anyways. “You’ll eat us out of house and home someday my dear boy, good god.”

While we’re at it, he is 100% taller and wider than Bruce. You might think it makes Bruce a bit uncomfortable when standing right next to him (I mean...it does lol) but he absolutely loves when Jay throws his weight around because the malnourished string-bean of a child that he met on the street could now powerlift a small automobile and he is so fucking proud and happy that he grew up to be big and healthy (that he managed to grow up AT ALL mind you) how could he be mad? He probably tears up at the dinner table after Jay fills his plate for 4th time that evening and still intends to stay for dessert because he loVES HIM.

His feet definitely hang off the end of his bed by like, the shins because his room only has a full compared to everyone else’s king/queen. It never got upgraded when he hit puberty (because he was dead) and then he wouldn’t let anyone change it once he came back because that’s his bed “don’t fucking touch it I still fit just fine.” (Even though he’s like 22 and there’s a dip in the mattress that could put the Grand Canyon to shame.)

Still has a picture of Catherine hidden away. Visits her grave on the anniversary and always brings her favorite flowers (Lillie’s.)

His hands get cold really easily and they’re always dry/calloused.

Snores. Loudly.

The Lazarus pit did NoT heal his autopsy scar that shit is there for life and it is big and it is ugly. He doesn’t like taking his shirt off because of it and the look on Bruce’s face when he sees it could strip wallpaper.

Stopped dying the lock of white hair on his head.

Has spring allergies that turn him into a giant snotting watery eyed whiny baby.

He’s claustrophobic and not a fan of the dark. It’s why his helmet has night vision.

(While we’re at it, that helmet has to be the equivalent of like, iron mans on the inside. Definitely has built in comms, scopes, analysis systems, navigation, etc etc. the WORKS. whICH he designed and created himself because he’s brilliant.) (Actually Roy might have helped a little but don’t tell him that.)

Has a work-in-progress bike in the cave that hasn’t been finished for over 2 years and it will never be finished because he uses it as an excuse to hangout and spend time with Bruce. Drives Steph crazy to see it sit there but she gets it.

During his first Thanksgiving with Bruce and Alfred he cried for 15 minutes before dinner (which he’s still embarrassed about to this day) and then ate until he literally puked. He hasnt missed many Thanksgivings since he died.

TERRIBLE at 1st-person-shooters and super pissed about it.

“That’s not even realistic, an HK-416 doesn’t even have a 200 round drum. It’s bonkers! It’s madness Tim!”

“Shut the fuck up Jason you haven’t even been facing the right way since we started.”

(He’ll stick to Space Invaders and Mario fuck you very much.)

Really good at piano. Bruce asked him to start playing seriously when he moved in because “learning a musical instrument teaches self -discipline and versatility” but really it’s because one day during his Robin years Jay sat down and started plinking on the keys to a song he learned at the public youth-center on the “old shitty out of tune” wood one they had and it just happened to be a song Martha used to play Bruce all the time. He wanted to hear it fill the halls again.

Gets in a screaming match with Bruce nowadays and instead of lighting up one of Penguin’s underground casinos (like he might of used to 👀) he’ll disappear for a month to cool down. You can always tell when he gets over it though because he sends the family a postcard from wherever he is in the world. (Alfred puts them all on the fridge.)

Pit symptoms used to (and occasionally still do) include horrific night terrors, black-out rage, and brief moments of hallucinations or flashbacks. He had to relive the period of time shortly after he was pulled out through graphic and warped recollections (typically after not getting enough sleep or engaging in physical altercations.) He really only started to work through this after Ducra had suggested keeping a log and writing down everything he could remember. After a time he was able to piece together the things he had experienced or done (mostly to others) and as awful and horrible as knowing may have been, he could at least start to move on.

The more time he spent with Damian after he came back the more he could remember as well. He will occasionally speak to him in Arabic & not even realize he’s doing it (which scares the pants of Dames, himself, and Bruce.)

He does feel closer to the little gremlin because of it though. Talia likely had him as a baby with her the majority of the time after he was born and Jay was recovering/training, so he spent a substantial amount of time with both of them.

Bruce bought him a kindle for Christmas one of the first years he was back and he was (and still is but don’t tell the old man that) elated.

Occasionally mumbles in his sleep, usually in a variety of languages.

He does smoke, mostly only when he gets stressed out (because everyone reams him for it otherwise.) You’d think it’s a rebellious street kid thing but it’s actually because Catherine used to smoke the same brand and the smell reminds him of her.

His shoe size is a 13.

The time shortly after he crawled out of his own grave he could see ghosts (and I’m talking straight up dead people.) He can’t recall much of this or the time spent actually deceased (even after his dunk in the pit) but even now he’ll see things move out of the corner of his eye or get cold chills or feel like he’s being watched. When he hasn’t slept for like, 4 days and is bordering on manic depressive and harmful behavior, he starts seeing them again. Constantine prob finds him real interesting.

My guess is that he did see Catherine when he died but overall ended up in some sort of purgatory-like state which he can’t recall.

When he blushes it’s the hollows of his cheeks, back of the ears and neck and all the way down the front of his chest. The autopsy scar shows up white against it.

Has those hands that no matter how many times he washes them the oil/gun cleaner doesn’t come out of the cracks. Looks like a mechanic.

Tends to wear thicker work/type clothing like carhart fireproof pants and boots. Obviously his jacket too.

Not a fan of cold weather at all. His nose and cheek get really red and he shivers (as unmanly as that is)

OCD. His apartments are spotless, weapons and ammunition categorized and logged, etc.

Had asthma as a child and sort of grew out of it but sometimes his endurance suffers as an adult because of it.

Has this particular phone case 💀

[romioneflufffest]

As In Health

Rated: T Author: @idearlylovealaugh Words: 2,350 Summary: There are lots of things at which Ron Weasley excels - and taking care of a sick Hermione, while not particularly glamourous, is one of them.

The sun hadn’t yet risen as the beep of a charmed alarm clock sang out steadily in the darkened room, signalling the early hour. A large, freckled hand snaked out from underneath a voluminous white duvet and felt haphazardly along the surface of the nightstand, finally closing around smooth polished willow.

“Finitum,” came the gravelly incantation that, coupled with a practiced tap, effectively silenced the persistent tone.

With a satisfied grunt, Ron dropped his wand, pulled his arm back under the covers and wrapped it once more around the soft form of his wife. He squeezed his eyelids tighter as he pressed closer to her warmth, confident that her finely tuned internal clock would shake them out of bed and into their pre-work morning routine all too soon.

When his eyes finally cracked open, it was to the sound of wind rattling the tree branches outside the window and a bright beam of sunlight slipping through the side of the shade and slicing across the room. A feeling of disorientation muddled him as he craned his neck up to peer at the clock, the beginnings of dread setting in as he saw the hour.

Bollocks, he thought gloomily as he dropped his head back to the pillow.

“‘Ermione,” he murmured into her hair, “I think we had a bit of a lie in.”

Instead of the jolt and panic he anticipated, his news was met with a pitiful moan. Concern rapidly clearing his cottony head, he propped himself up to look over her shoulder, realizing that the skin beneath his hand tucked under her worn t-shirt was actually uncomfortably warm.

“Hermione?”

Untangling himself from the bedclothes and tipping his long form onto the floor, he quickly padded around to the other side of the bed and knelt beside it in only his pants. Hermione, still curled up, blinked at him blearily with unfocused eyes.

“You’re burning up,” he said, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.

“Huh?… no… I…” she began, shaking off his hand. Ron sat back on his heels as she pushed herself to a sitting position. “It’s late?” she asked confusedly as she pushed off the covers. “We have to… uhhhh.”

Ron lunged awkwardly to catch her as she staggered. “You have to lie down,” he said firmly as he helped her back to the bed. “You’re not well. I’ll just get the Pep… damn,” he cursed, belatedly remembering the incident a few years ago whereby they learned she had developed an allergy to Pepper-Up potion. It had involved a few minutes of genuine alarm and then several days of an uncomfortable yet ultimately harmless brilliant blue smoke issuing continuously from her ears.

“I’ll get the muggle medicine, yeah?” he asked, and she nodded miserably.

Ron rifled through the boxes in the medicine cupboard, pulling out the unfamiliar flat rectangle with the funny green pills. He started back before remembering that she would need water to take them, turning to fill a glass at the tap.

Hermione was still perched on the edge of the bed when he emerged from the bathroom, her head propped up on her hand with her eyes closed, elbow resting on her knee. She opened her eyes heavily as the mattress dipped beside her.

“Here,” he offered, holding out two tablets. “Er, I think this is the right dosage. S’what the box says, anyway.”

He watched uncomfortably as she tossed the pills into her mouth and took a swig of water. Muggle pills always reminded him of bezoars, although these were blessedly smaller.

“Now lie back down, and I’ll let your office know you won’t be in today,” he instructed.

Hermione looked at him pitiably. “But…”

“Hermione,” he forestalled her. “That stuff takes time to work, you told me yourself.”

She huffed a sad, sniffly huff. “Fine,” she conceded mutinously as she slid her feet back between the blankets. Ron bunched the duvet up around her shoulders as she shivered and reached for a tissue. “I do feel rather terrible,” she admitted in a sad little voice that struck his heart.

“Sleep, love,” he said tenderly, kissing her forehead. He waited for her eyes to close before heading downstairs to make two floo calls, remembering at the last moment to grab a shirt and trousers.

It was mid-afternoon when he heard her begin to stir. Arming a small tray with tea and toast he made his way upstairs and gently cracked the door to their bedroom, watching as she shifted herself up to sit against the headboard.

“Ron!” she croaked in surprise as entered the room. He was relieved to see how much clearer her eyes looked. “I assumed you had gone in to work.”

“When I had such a good excuse to skive off?” he joked, setting the tray on her bedside table.

She rolled her eyes as she cleared her throat. “It’s just a cold,” she chided, but she accepted the tea he offered with a grateful look that told him how much it meant to her that he had stayed.

“Budge up,” he told her, climbing over her legs to sit next to her on the bed.  

“Oh Ron, don’t! It’s probably catching!” she cried, hastily setting down the mug and gathering up the small mountain of tissues that had accumulated by her side.

“Hermione, my tongue has been in your mouth many times in the last few days. If I’m going to catch it, I’ll catch it,” he replied philosophically, leaning back against the headboard and tucking her under his arm. She wrinkled her nose in exasperation as she burrowed into his side, laying her head against his and wrapping an arm around his middle, hand still clutching a tissue.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asked, dropping his head to rest on hers.

“Yes, much,” she murmured. “All that sleep must’ve helped tremendously.” She sniffed congestedly. “I do wish I could’ve gone in today. There was a preliminary hearing on werewolf employment protection and I just know Rivington’s committee will try to undercut it while I’m not there.”

“The more fools they,” he remarked, rubbing her arm. “You’ll be back in tomorrow, tearing everyone a new arsehole.”

Hermione snorted, then grabbed a tissue to deal with the resulting aftermath issuing from her nose.

“You should have some toast.”

“I will,” she promised, “Have there been any owls for me?”

“One or two,” he prevaricated, thinking of the several large Ministry owls that had muscled up to the kitchen window around lunchtime. “But none of them marked urgent. Let it wait,” he said with a look, as she motioned ever so slightly to get up.

She sighed back into his side. They sat contentedly, the silence punctuated only by Hermione’s frequent sniffing and occasional cough.

“Tell me something cheerful,” she hummed after a while.

Ron looked down at her and his heart constricted. She looked pale except for her bright red nose, with dark smudges under her closed eyes and her hair frazzled and unkempt. She was always beautiful to him - and yet seeing her sick reminded him of nothing so much as some of his worst memories over the years. Seeing her petrified from the basilisk’s stare, lying in the infirmary with her chest bandaged from Dolohov’s curse, in a narrow bed at Shell Cottage…

He mentally shook himself and tried to cast his mind back to something lighthearted.

“D’you remember when we went to that Death Day party for Nearly Headless Nick?”

“Of course!” she answered with a laugh. “Although I’m not sure I’d call that cheerful,” she added.

“Mmm, dunno why I thought of it,” he reflected, stroking the hair from her forehead. “It just popped into my head.”

“I thought it would be so fascinating at the time,” she reminisced.

“And then to see all that manky food!” He pulled a face as he recalled the intentionally rotten spread.

“I was sure I’d never see you so disappointed,” she giggled. “Of course, that was before I’d ever been to a Cannons match with you.”

“Ha bloody ha,” he replied good-naturedly, glad at least that she was smiling.

“Did I ever tell you about the time in fifth year when Seamus tried to get Neville to help him study for his herbology OWL, and Neville gave him a dragon wort ointment?” he said after a few moments. He felt her shake her head in a negative against his side. “It was for the plant, but the ruddy fool thought it was for himself - rubbed it on his skin and came all over bark.”

“No!”

“On my honor,” he grinned. “Don’t even want to know what Madam Pomfrey had to do to get it off.”

“Poor Seamus!” she laughed wheezily, plucking another tissue. “We were all a bit manic from those OWLs, I think,” she said thoughtfully as she wiped her nose. “I don’t know how many times I fell asleep in the Common Room.”  She eyed him calculatingly. “Most of the time, I’d wake up and find someone had covered me with a blanket and moved my inkwell so I wouldn’t knock it over. Who could that have been?” she asked meaningfully.

“Could’ve been the house elves,” he deflected, shifting uncomfortably.

“But it wasn’t, was it,” she insisted, looking up at him owlishly. “It was you.”

“Mostly me,” he acknowledged.

“And you used to bring me toast and marmalade in the library when I missed breakfast for studying, even after Madam Pince bawled you out over it.”

“Well, you needed to eat. Anyone would’ve done that,” he scoffed, feeling his face redden.

“Not likely. Hardly anyone could stand me by that point,” she argued.

“Not quite,” he grunted. He may not have had a good memory for obscure facts from History of Magic, but he had an encyclopedic recall for any admiring comments other blokes had made regarding Hermione.

“You take such good care of me,” she said lowly, pressing her cheek to his chest.

“I think there was something in the vows about that,” he said lightly. “In sickness, all that.”

“There wasn’t, and you know it,” she said firmly. They had eschewed the traditional vows for heartfelt ones of their own. “I mean, you’ve always taken care of me, even before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you loved me,” she said in a small voice, self-consciousness tinging the words.

“Hard to remember a time, really,” he admitted quietly. She looked up at him with watery eyes.

“And after,” she said softly, holding his gaze. “I’m so lucky.”

There was so much there, so much pain running underneath those memories like a powerful current tugging at his sense of self. Sometimes it still felt like opening the door to those recollections, just wading gently into that past, was an invitation to drown in the feelings of guilt and regret that saturated them. But time, and the vows he had made to himself - to do everything he could to protect her, to give her everything he had - had planted a certainty in his heart that, no matter his shortcomings, there was no one on earth that could love her better. And when she looked at him like this, like he had hung the moon in the sky and half the stars, he could very nearly convince himself that he deserved it.

Her fingers tucked under the hem of his shirt, lightly stroking the skin of his stomach. The irony of having a rare afternoon in bed with his wife only due to her fighting off a cold was not lost on him, and in spite of the circumstances, of the growing pile of tissues, of the near-certainty that nothing could or should currently come of it, he nonetheless felt the familiar stirring of his body in response to her touch.

“Did you know,” she started, and he grinned unconsciously at the familiar opening. “Did you know that, when aroused, the human body actively suppresses sensations of pain and discomfort?” She slid her leg higher against his and he became even more acutely aware of her breasts pressed invitingly against his side through her threadbare t-shirt.

“If you’re trying to tell me that shagging feels good, then yes, love, I had figured that out for myself.”

“Not just feels good,” she corrected. “It can be good for you, when you’re not feeling well.”

“Just what kind of books have you been reading, Ms. Granger-Weasley?” he murmured, trailing his fingers up the leg resting on top of his as he lowered his face towards hers. The last thing he saw was her feline smile before his eyes slipped shut and their lips met, moving together languidly as he palmed the bare skin just below her knickers. Her fingers slid into his hair as her mouth opened beneath his, her body arching into his as his torso moved to cover hers… before she pulled back sharply and sneezed violently, only inches from his face.

They both froze, something wet sliding unpleasantly down his cheek, before Hermione’s hand flew to cover her mouth in horror.

“Ron, I’m so sorry!” she blurted, snatching a tissue and scrubbing at the side of his face as he leaned back, his shoulders rocking with silent mirth.

“No, s’my fault,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I couldn’t resist you, bloody siren.”

“Hardly,” she fretted as she balled up the tissue. “You must think I’m absolutely revolting.”

“I don’t, but let’s give it a few hours before we try again, yeah?” She looked up at him forlornly. “C’mere,” he said, sliding down on the bed and motioning for her to join him. “I’ll settle for doing my second-favorite thing in bed with you.”

As she settled against him, her head fitting perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder as it always did, all he could think of was how lucky he was - that he was the one who got to take care of her, that four years after the most painful experiences of his life he had built this life with her, that he got to love her and wake up next to her every day - snot and all.

[kurly-quill]

Robin’s Nest Cafe (part 1)

So, here goes nothing! This will probably have more than one part, but will likely be non-chronological. 

Pairings: JayTim, maybe future JayDickTim 

Rating: Mature for Language [for now] 

Coffee Shop AU (sort of), Civilian!Tim (mostly?)

         Part 1 - Part 2

(1) Hot Chocolate

The first thing to know about Gothamites, is that they are objectively, irrevocably rude as fuck.

It’s not like New York City, where people bustle past without so much as a nod of acknowledgement because they have somewhere to be and don’t have time for pleasantries, or the aggressive shoving on the metro in Tokyo, or God forbid, like Metropolis, where people born past 1930 still tip their hats at passerby.

No, the average Gothamite would see you, without an umbrella, soaking wet, and shake their umbrella off on you on the way inside. If you gave up your seat to an elderly Gothamite on the train, they would sooner say fuck you than thank you. If you tried to mug a Gothamite, they would probably punch you in the face and steal your wallet, because, hell, you’d be the fifth person to try it this week.

And Tim, for all of his “good breeding” and “respectable upbringing” is, at his very core, a Gothamite.

His smile is so wide that he’s baring teeth, and while it doesn’t match the snarl on the face across from him, it’s no less able to convey the sheer amounts of fuck you very much, have a fucktastic day!!

“I ain’t sayin’ it again -” the man bellows, spit hitting Tim’s face and, ew, probably his lips too, “- give me the money inna register ‘afore things get ugly!”

His eyes glimmer with the sharpness of the icicles hanging outside along the shop window, barely sparing the knife shaking under his chin a second glance.

It’s 11 pm on Friday night, and the cafe is still open because Gotham never really sleeps and Tim lives above the shop, anyway. Behind Knife Guy, there’s a few people in line, displaying varying degrees of concern.

(1- was born in a Gotham alleyway, please if you’re going to stab the cashier just do it I’ll pour the coffee myself, 5 - been in Gotham for awhile, kinda worried but Killer Croc smashed my car last week and I just really need a coffee, 10 - visiting Gotham for the first time this weekend-- and the last time.)

Tim looks skyward, praying for strength. There are cobwebs up there he’s never noticed.

“Sorry, the money in the register is a seasonal flavor. But hey, bright side, we’ve just got peppermint mocha back in, so I can ring you up for that instead?”

Knife Guy gapes for a second, squinting at Tim like he expects him to start tap dancing any second now. Tim raises a brow, patient. With a frustrated snarl, the knife jolts forward enough that it clicks against Tim’s nametag, chipping at the edge of the black and yellow batman sticker beside his name, which is his favorite sticker so excuse you.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. Either you put away the knife and order a peppermint mocha with christmas tree sprinkles, and we pretend this never happened, or we do it the less fun way, with the GCPD. Who are a total buzzkill, by the way, believe me. Your choice.”

There’s an eye-twitch, and a change in the man’s expression that makes Tim’s finely-honed Gotham instincts go “oh damn, here we go”, when someone opens up the front door with far too much strength, the glass rattling with the force of its inward swing. The freezing night wind billows in, the scent of oil and snow filtering through the warmer scents of the cafe. There’s an unceremonious tinkle of the bell dangling on the doorframe, and beneath it stands another man.

Tim stares. Knife Guy stares. One of the customers looks up from her phone, groans long and loud, grabs her triple-espresso hazelnut latte with caramel drizzle, and walks out into the late-November chill.

The Red Hood holds the door open for her, because he’s a fucking gentleman.

The door swinging shut with another tinkle, and there’s a pause filled only with catchy holiday jingles that have been playing over the radio since September. Hood surveys the scene before strolling toward the counter.

“Damn, lemme tell ya, it’s cold as fuckin’ balls out there,” Hood laments, with absolutely zero prompting, rubbing his hands together as though he’d gain any friction through the gauntlets. He stops just short of where Tim and Knife Guy are facing off, the blade hovering threateningly in the air just under Tim’s chin. Hood cocks his head.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?”

Tim takes a quick second to make sure that, if he opens his mouth, his jaw won’t hit the floor, before he replies, “Just regular customer service in Gotham. Hope you’re not here for the money in the register too - We’re fresh out of stock. Moving onto the Winter Menu, you know?”

Hood nods, making what sounds like an understanding hum through the voice synthesizers, “Some people just never check the website. Read you’ve got a mean gingerbread latte on special.”

Tim would respond, except now the knife is shaking to a worrying degree– Knife Guy is scared shitless, because the Red Hood is nearly shoulder-to-shoulder– or, well, shoulder-to-bicep with him, because the man is huge and smells very distinctly of cigarette smoke and blood. Tim would sympathize if he wasn’t having an internal fangasm to end all fangasms at this moment.

In a display of panic-borne, truly ballsy stupidity (unfortunately, also a common trait amongst Gothamites, particularly the ones that rob cafes at knife-point at just the hour the Bats tend to come out), Knife Guy whips the knife to the side to turn on the vigilante.

Hood’s got the knife out of the guy’s hand in an instant– Tim has just enough reflexes to grab the steaming cup of caffeine goodness that’s sitting innocently in harm’s way– and in the next second he’s grabbing the guy by the hair and slamming his head backwards onto the counter, spine bent at an angle that makes the onlookers flinch. A few more scurry out the door. There are other places to get a caffeine fix.

“Look here,” Hood growls, No-Knife Guy going cross-eyed as the knife points straight at his nose, “I ain’t lookin for a side of stitches with my candy cane hot chocolate with heavy cream, ya feel me?”

Mr. No Knife squeals.

“P-Please– I’m sorry, I’ll go! Promise! Just– fuck, l-lemme go!”

Hood’s head makes a minute motion, somehow conveying sheer exasperation despite the helmet (Though Tim can just feel the eye-roll going on). He drags the wannabe-robber up to his feet, though it’s pretty useless seeing as the guy’s knees give out they’re shaking so hard– and, oh dude, gross, that’s definitely a wet spot in the front of his jeans there. Tim’s nose wrinkles. He better not have to mop that up.

Hood pays the fact that he’s basically holding up all the man’s weight one-armed no mind, dragging him to the front of the shop. The bell chimes merrily as he gives the guy a literal kick in the ass out the door. The guy lands face-first in dirty, oily, Gothamy snow. An eight year old kicks him as she walks past, hand-in-hand with her father to the nearest bus stop. That Uptown Gotham charm, amiright?

“You’re just lucky I’m feeling the holiday fucking spirit right now– Plus, no offense,” a quick appraisal, “you’re kinda pathetic.”

And then Hood closes the door.

But he’s still here.

Tim looks around the shop. Apparently, at some point in the last 2 minutes, the rest of the customers have decided that they really don’t have time for the typical Bat-dramatics today and fucked off to another cafe. Tim should be more upset about the loss in business than he is, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind.

Because the Red Hood (It’s him, it’s really him) is still standing there. In the cafe.

 With Tim.

He glances down at his chest to make sure the knife isn’t actually buried there, because the possibility that he’s died makes more sense than the Red Hood standing in his cafe, surrounded by a horrific mash-up of dollar-store Hannukah and Christmas (because his family is technically Jewish even if they didn’t celebrate jack shit, and Steph took the shitty plastic menorah on top of the espresso machine as a challenge).

“Um,” Tim remarks, scrambling for the words he wants to say to one of his childhood heros, “So, can I get you something? I feel like I should get you something. Cause I mean. This is an establishment that supports vigilantism, okay? Robin’s Nest cafe, at your service. At least a 10% discount, just like military. Just putting it out there.”

Right. So where is that knife again? Can’t speak if he doesn’t have vocal chords.

The vigilante makes a sound through the synths in his helmet that must be a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. He moves back up to the counter with movements far too fluid for someone of his size, and Tim swallows a bit as he’s forced to look up (and up) at close proximity. Wow, the helmet is something else– he’s itching to get his hands on it, take it apart and see all its functions and how it was made.

“Gotta first aid kit?” is almost lost to Tim, he’s so mesmerized – he thinks distantly that he’s probably looking a little manic, cause he’s running on caffeine and spite, and people have always told him that his tendency to hyperfocus is unnerving on a good day – but then the words click. He frowns.

“Yes, we do? He didn’t get you with the knife, did he?” he questions, eyes raking up and down Hood’s leather jacket for any telling rips or tears.

Hood tuts, reaching up to tap at his neck, “Nah, not me, but you’re ‘bout to need a new white shirt.”

Tim mimics the movement on autopilot, clapping his hand to the side of his neck and feeling the stickiness there. His heart jumps for a second as he pulls back his hand and sees enough blood there to wonder how he’d missed it.

“Oh. Damn.”

And that’s how, five minutes later, Tim’s got the doors to the cafe locked and finds himself sitting in the break room with the Red Hood dabbing at his neck with a cotton swab.

If he finally manages to overdose on caffeine tonight, he thinks he could go happily.

Hood’s so close that Tim’s 100% sure the vigilante can feel his heart trying to burst all his arteries by its sheer pumping force. He’s getting light-headed because he’s trying not to be creepy and do something like smell the the tall, buff guy with gentle hands (Cause, God, somehow the scent of cigarettes, leather, and gunmetal just work for him) and has thus forgone taking any deep breaths.

“Lucky you, s’not deep,” are the only words either of them has said since he plopped down on the table. Tim hesitates for a second, watching Hood close the first aid kit and step away, before he clears his throat.

Courage, Tim. Come on, you’re from Gotham.

“So. Thanks. For all that, I mean.”

Hood shrugs.

“Eh, there are worse ways to start the night. Plus, it’s way warmer in here than out there. Wasn’t kidding when I walked in– was gettin fucking blue balls out there, and not even from anything fun this time.”

Tim lets out a surprised laugh.

“Oh? Well, I think I have a way to warm you up.”

There’s amusement in every line of Hood’s shoulders as he tilts his head, becoming increasingly intrigued by this particularly bold civilian. When he speaks, there’s a definite purr there, mechanized though it is. Something prickly hot shoots down Tim’s spine, and he has to fight down a flush.

“Yeah? You got something in mind?”

Tim can’t help but grin. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

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.

“Let me guess. Hot chocolate with heavy cream?”

“Shut your shittin’ mouth, Dick.”

.

.

.

.

“…. It’s got candy cane flavor in it”

[chicagoindiecritics]

New from Every Movie Has a Lesson by Don Shanahan: REWIND REVIEW: Toy Story 4

(Image courtesy of Walt Disney and Pixar via Walt Disney Media File)

For an occasional new segment, Every Movie Has a Lesson will cover upcoming home media releases combining an “overdue” or “rewind” film review, complete with life lessons, and an unboxed look at special features.

TOY STORY 4

After reopening the franchise and scoring at the summer box office Toy Story 4 arrives on October 8th. Pixar releases are always top-notch in the goodies department and this new 3-disc set offers plenty of treats. Completists, you’re going to want this disc, at least until some writer gets the idea to dust off these toys for an equally unnecessary fifth installment.

LATE HOMEWORK EXCUSE:  

I should rename this section from “Late Homework Excuse” to “Inciting a School Riot” for my participation with the June release of Toy Story 4. I saw the film early for press, covered a fun family event at Navy Pier, and was very unimpressed by the final product. My review was one of the initial wave of four that broke the Rotten Tomatoes perfect 100% Tomatometer score for the movie. The trolling comments and death threats followed and I wrote about that experience. I didn’t want to be that guy, but I just couldn’t call this sequel worthwhile trying to follow the near-perfection of Toy Story 3. I spelled out my stance to my peers as well with podcast appearances on “Kicking the Seat” and “You’ll Probably Agree.”

ANTICIPATORY SET AND PRIOR KNOWLEDGE:

A few years have passed since our core corps of toys were passed on to hazel-green-eyed Bonnie from the college-bound Andy. The toddler is now an anxious little girl entering kindergarten after starting to show favor at home towards other playtime favorites than our stalwart cowboy Woody (Tom Hanks). Even on the dust bunny closet sidelines, the vocal sheriff and leader still sees Bonnie’s happiness as his chief duty. He sneaks into Bonnie’s backpack for orientation day to be a familiar face and watches her having no luck in making friends or feeling positive.

Scavenging and sneaking some scraps and art supplies to Bonnie, Woody watches her create a makeshift little character out of a spork, pipe cleaner, stick-on shaky eyes, and other craft materials. With connection and accomplishment, Bonnie names him Forky and the sprinkle of loveable alchemy that makes Forky a toy to her brings him to life. The little junker (Tony Hale) becomes Bonnie’s favorite comfort but sentiently believes he’s still trash, a transition of character growth that will come from Woody’s teaching and leadership since the days of Buzz Lightyear (Tim Allen).

LESSON #1: INTERPRET YOUR INNER VOICE — The first of many possible takeaway chestnuts for the target demographic showing up in droves for this movie is a message on conscience. Various characters in the movie, between pull-strings and heartstrings, duel with literal and figurative forms of their inner voice and how best to follow it or not. Good, bad, and questionable choices are made across the board for younger audiences to see as cautionary examples. This lesson counts as mildly beneficial in the worthwhile department.

All this built-up confidence and protection for Bonnie falls into peril when Forky gets lost on a family road trip to end the summer. Woody goes after him while Buzz (Tim Allen), Jessie (Joan Cusack) and the others hold down the family RV and stall Bonnie’s parents. Woody and Forky become sidetracked by the reemergence of his old flame Bo Peep (Annie Potts) who has found a thriving new life as a “lost” toy living independently on her own. Their reunion and pursuit intersects with the forgotten toys of an antique store led by Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks), an unwanted pull-string doll with a broken voice box and a gang of extremely creepy slick-haired suits at her disposal, who have taken Forky captive.

MY TAKE:

It could be the first movie, fourth movie, or the 17th of something really extensive, a beneficial purpose needs to be present beyond the business end of selling tickets and what not. For each movie or chapter at hand, one has to consider if there is a worthwhile story to tell, one that can justify this new effort being a true necessity. The key word there is worthwhile. To more specifically judge a sequel in that regard, one has to look where it came from and where it is going. Toy Story 4 indeed attempts to advance characters and chooses trajectories, but then look backward and forward and ask about value and placement. Despite the immense talent shining from the recording studio and the animation workshop, the traits and choices of Toy Story 4 lack being worthwhile.

LESSON #2: THE SYNONYMS OF “WORTHWHILE” — Dissect this important adjective further with its synonyms that offer a range of its possible connotations as a description. This review will feature five from worthwhile’s Thesaurus.com entry: advantageous, beneficial, constructive, justifiable, and valuable. All five can be applied to this film.

Advantageous and valuable, in the lucrative sense, are easy because the braintrust of Pixar has been tempted for the better part of a decade to re-open Toy Story after many initially ruled it out following the excellence of Toy Story 3. Audience interest and earning potential has not faded where this was bound to happen at some point. Now it’s here and it’s about earning justifiable inclusion and existence.

LESSON #3: BEING LOST VERSUS BEING FREE — In unison with Lesson #1, Disney has always had a tendency to over-highlight their chosen morals and themes. The “lost” fear here in Toy Story 4 is the first of two teachable concepts and plot ingredients that are beaten to death, even by Mouse House standards. Much fluster and bluster is expressed for avoiding becoming lost, helping the lost, and/or getting over something lost. All the while, and very true to the human condition paralleled through these cherished toys, there is a potential sunny freedom possible in being unbound that seeps in clouding motivations and futures. Still, it’s an overplayed point.

Circle back to purpose. The first Toy Story was groundbreaking and its stellar sequel strengthened and expanded its world-building beautifully. The keenly nostalgic third film wisely and perfectly brought everyone and everything further to a mature, impactful, and fitting conclusion. Continuing a journey that had an ending for a questionable transition such as this, Toy Story 4 does not match or exceed where it came from, not when repetitiveness and disconnection reign.

Eight creators, ranging from departed Pixar chief John Lasseter to the clever Celeste and Jesse Forever writing team of Rashida Jones and Will McCormack, are credited with this hodgepodge story ineffectively narrowed by the credited screenwriters of Pixar vet Andrew Stanton and new voice first-timer Stephany Folsom. This feels like eight or more ideas that all distract and tangle each other up to failing points. Because of stature and importance, it is difficult to positively describe the result as constructive. Unnecessary is a very tempting label, one that is probably too strong, but it is very close.

Both within the Toy Story franchise and beyond in other family films, we’ve seen the self-urgent dalliances and pitfalls of a manic need-to-get-back-home adventure endless times now. As the fourth film following what was serene closure, this counts as unjustified and even misguided. Cutely twitchy as he is, Forky is no better than a mini MacGuffin to force action and the mad cap spins become excessive by the time the movie culminates in a rehash Finding Dory’s vehicular takeover action finale. Likewise in the opposite direction, the Gabby Gabby tangent comprising the movie’s meaty middle is long-winded and ineffectual, even with a redemptive ending we can see coming.

The curveballs and new guest characters, ranging from a motorcycle stuntman action figure (Keanu Reeves) and carnival prize pair of stuffed animals (Keegan Michael Key and Jordan Peele) and a few others, are certainly cute thanks to their casting personalities, but paper thin as merely and predominantly additions of comic relief. Even with a semi-exciting pre-credits rescue sequence revealing Bo Peep’s fate between the events of Toy Story 2 and Toy Story 3, the swelling and positive female empowerment of the returning shepherdess that was an afterthought before this movie takes away from the established core on the sidelines like Buzz, Jessie, and more who carry more lasting care. For example, had this been applied to Jessie or if the entire movie was more Toy Story 2.5 instead of a final one unwinding the catharsis of Toy Story 3, this all might have played better for justification and continuance.

Let’s not kid ourselves. Of course, all the talent in the world is here. The movie looks and sounds like a billion bucks. That said, story and purpose matter more than prowess at this point. Throughout this entire series, this has always been about the over-dramatic Woody correcting a personal flaw first and anything else second. His nobility to always be there is incredibly honorable. All arcs lead to him and Toy Story 4 is truly a unique and daring transition point for that character. However, it is elevated, again, at the expense of his partner Buzz and the rest of the toys who once hand-in-hand bonded with shared fates. Tom Hanks can carry that moment, but the punch, the famed “Pixar Punch” this writer and website has long touted and celebrated, misses in a way that may perplex younger children and raise an eyebrow in the escorting adults asking why this matters.

LESSON #4: KNOWING TIMELINESS — The progression of Woody is what brings the second simplistic and prescriptive nugget over-hammered by Toy Story 4. Implored loudly in some moments and reflecting softly in others, the lament of knowing it’s time, knowing your time, or being ready for either state is overflowing in every direction towards Woody. It’s a high hurdle for the plastic protector and apparently one for the filmmakers themselves too who didn’t know when or how to leave this all be.

2 STARS

EXTRA CREDIT:

In an improvement over the Disney’s recent Marvel Cinematic Universe disc releases, the folks at Pixar double the batch.  The Blu-ray/DVD/Digital package you will find on the store shelves comes with a third disc entirely dedicated to more bonus features.  The additions, while nothing overly long for deep Peter Jackson-level examination, are handsome enough to be a keeper.

The first bonus selections come on the main disc housing the feature film.  The main piece is the full-length audio commentary. Director Josh Cooley is joined by producer Mark Neilsen.  With typical Pixar pluck, 100% of the discussion is showering positives with very little critique. They open with the biggest question all of us had when hearing about this fourth adventure: WHY.  The short and curt answer is “we had more story to tell.” Much of that assumed position of decision-making authority comes from Neilsen, spoken like a producer with his bankroll on the line. Often, Cooley is serving softballs and tossing bouquets like a director trying to impress the guy sitting next to him that signs his checks,

After the prerequisite promotional trailers (one for Pixar’s Onward and, of course, Frozen 2), the other special features on the main disc are a pair of easy featurettes.  “Bo Rebooted” proudly highlights the creative women (yes, women, there’s not a man in the picture) behind the development and performance of the reintroduced Bo Peep character.  Actress Annie Potts and the various animators speak on her redesign, agency, and new womanly independence. It’s an outstanding addition here. The second one is easy nostalgia entitled “Toy Stories.” Cast members and creators alike wax poetically about their favorite toys and shared life experiences with them.  It’s touching, but still quite short.

Over on bonus disc, the top carnival prize is the collection of “deleted scenes.”  I put that usual term in quotes because they are presented here in unfinished storyboard animatic form.  Introduced each time by Josh Cooley, most are fairly small shavings or shifts from existing scenes. The boldest one is the alternate ending to the movie entitled “She’s the One.”  It’s an enormous departure from the final cut and maybe even one some (including this writer) find to be better. That is MUST SEE!

Behind that, the usual pieces and parts are here between a repeat of the trailers, a posedown reel for app/game marketing, few included promos from other countries, and some animated set flyovers that would make for a nice screensaver if we all still used those.  The Toy Story series has always had a “Toy Box” roll call of little genesis vignettes for each of the new characters with the voice actors and creators.  The likes of Forky (Tony Hale), Duke Caboom (Keanu Reeves), and Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks) get the most time out of the 13-minute collection.  Keanu’s is absolutely aces. You would gladly watch 13 minutes on each character if you could, but something is better than nothing.  

The cherry on top there is an all-too-short little retrospective of the bond between Woody and Buzz.  Three-and-a-half minutes is not enough time to encapsulate their journey. Oddly, Tom Hanks and Tim Allen never share interview time for this feature.  The editing compiles parts from their packaged testimonial sessions. The impact and interest would have been far greater to put the two stars together and see the human chemistry match the animated stuff (unless, gasp, they don’t have any), especially if this is their last collaboration.

The most interesting bonus feature on this disc from a technical standpoint is the “Anatomy of a Scene: Playground” that runs nine-and-a-half minutes.  Devoid of talking head stars, supervisors and animation specialists walk viewers through the climactic scene where Woody reunites with Bo Beep for the first time and their ensuing escape.  The reactions and insights of the artists are excellent. They really go into the savvy technical details (and easter eggs) that go into this one scene, let alone the many that comprise the entire film.

The last and most unique bonus feature is a hammy segment called “Let’s Ride with Ally Maki.”  The voice of policewoman Giggle McDimples, the prolific actress engages in a scripted pinball tour behind-the-scenes of what it takes to get from the microphone to the screen.  This quick piece highlights the mountain of repetitive data collection and work from the dialogue room (script supervisor, director, head of story, actors, and recording engineers), editing room, and creative offices.  Both informative and humorous, this feature is a nice take on the length and volume of the recording arm of the animated process.

LOGO DESIGNED BY MEENTS ILLUSTRATED (#829)

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[enz-fan]

JUKE magazine review of Palais Theatre, Melbourne show - 23 March 1981. This was the show where Neil was electrocuted onstage.

https://www.setlist.fm/setlist/split-enz/1981/palais-theatre-melbourne-australia-1bc011ec.html

Venue: Palais Theatre, Melbourne

After five days in the bush on the first leg of their Outback Tour ‘81, Split Enz hit the big smoke last week for the first time in many moons.

Actually I shouldn’t mention the word smoke, because where there’s smoke there’s fire, and that’s a dirty word down at the Palais in St Kilda at the moment - the management has been forced to close the dress circle because fire safety facilities aren’t up to scratch and THAT has resulted in the Dire Straights concerts being transferred to Festivall Hall and...

Anyway, the Enz started with a bang, the curtain raising to the strains of didgeridoo, revealing a cloth of native design, which mysteriously swished to one side revealing the Enz in all their virginal white glory, glowing under the influence of ultraviolet lights, bringing wild cheers and even a touch of hysterical screaming (no, it’s wasn’t me).

The Enz new stage set, a Crombie Creation, consists of white triangles rising from behind the band, and large white banners - sails, almost - draped from the roof.

Through this potentially sterile setting ramped the manic Tim Finn and his loose-limbed brother Neil, as they commenced to stoke the embers of the blaze created by support band Pop Mechanis (a frenetically fab combo with a singer and bass player who engage in some almost ritaualistic crazy dancing in to their own short, snappy and immensely enjoyable soundtrack).

The Enz opened with “History Never Repeats,” the song which seems to be on the radio every time I turn it on - history might not repeat but the single does...

Unfortunately, it’s not a whiz-bang opener, lacking some of the body of the record; and the acapella harmony in the middle just isn’t the same with only two voices.

It’s obvious from the word go that Noel Crombie has had little trouble making the transition from resident up-front focal point-cum-percussionist, majoring in weirdness, to the pulse of the Enz. Gone is the vacant, wide-eyed, bonga-playing innocent. He’s up on the drum-riser giving his arms full rein: a picture of rhythmic concentration. He’s not confident enough yet to venture far away from the straight rhythm patterns, but no doubt his percussive ability will be brought to bear at a later stage.

From “History,” the Enz switched into “I Don’t Wanna Dance,” from the new album, which proves that Tim Finn is in excellent form. Neil takes over for the next number, “What’s The Matter With You,” which slides into “One Step Ahead,” each accompanied by nubile belllowings of approval.

This sets the pattern for the evening as temperatures rise. Tim and Neil bounce off each other all evening - sometimes literally - as they take it in turns to handle lead vocals, Tim ranging around the stage, Neil quivering at the mike stand as he sings and plays. Tim seemed to pick up on Neil’s youthful energy and became more and more physically involved with his performance, moving from his trademark hand-behind-the-back stance to some demented cavorting.

Now that the Enz have been pared down to a quintet, the contribution of keyboardsman Eddie Rayner becomes more obvious.

Neil is more a rhythm player than a lead guitarist, which leaves Eddie to add the color and texture, a task he performs with incredible dexterity and ability, utilising a wide range of kayboards. This was particularly evident in songs such as the evocative “Ghost Girl” and, also from the new album, “Walking Thru The Ruins.”

It was again brought home during a version of the Enz classic “(That Was) My Mistake,” where Eddie used his synthesisers to recreate a range of effects previously handled by Noel, such as whistles, cowbells and so on.

Eddie’s instrumental from the new LP - “Wail” - was another highlight: a compelling, beat-heavy piece reminiscent of ELO.

“Poor Boy,” “Shark Attack,” “I Got You” (bulk screams) and “Nobody Takes Me Seriously” also impressed. Naturally, the Enz were really firing as they reached the end of their set, having persuaded the majority of the audience to leave their seats and jive in the aisles.

The band returned for an encore, after several minutes of rousing encouragement, to perform two numbers - the first an odd, almost inspirational number with musical hall style overtones, called “Something To Do,” exhorting everyone to find something to do which they like doing.

A song with a message for those who feel they have no mission in life? Only the Enz know, but it went down well and was quickly followed up by “I See Red” - a stirring and gutsy version.

More screams which lasted longer than before and the Enz returned for a second encore. Just as they were getting ready Neil Finn rushed from the stage. Tim looked confused, and asked Eddie Rayner to play a little piano music while he coolly sauntered off to see what was up with Neil.

He returned and informed the audience that Neil had received a bad electrical shock from his guitar and the show was over.

Some of the younger fans were almost as shocked as Neil. Frantic screams of ‘Is he OK’ brought no response from the roadies. As it turned out, Neil was burned from the shock.

It was an anti-climatic ending to the Enz otherwise stunning performance.

The Enz excelled musically and visually; we’re lucky there aren’t fire regulations governing hot bands.

- ALLAN WEBSTER

[gaiatheorist]

Standards.

I started this one yesterday, inflamed by the Tim Lott article in The Guardian. My impression of the column was that he was suggesting that women created their own mental health issues, by virtue of being virtuous. Maybe I read it wrong, maybe, in my perilously precarious psychological state, I’m looking for issues that aren’t there. What do I know, I’m only a woman, with mental health issues. (No current formal diagnosis, I’m free-range mad.)

I am not a virtuous woman. I try to do the ‘right’ thing more often than the ‘wrong’ one, and, as much as I rant about amusingly disturbing revenge on the neighbours that steal my bin, I don’t actually intend them harm. The reason that I didn’t finish this yesterday was other people’s standards. The ex in-laws were collecting my son, to take him to his Dad’s for the weekend, and the house looked like it had been rolled down a hill, due to the kid being back from uni, and having no concept of putting things ‘away’. 

Domesticity isn’t my strongest suit, if I was a domestic Goddess, I’d be Kali, I’m barely house-trained, house-proud is an alien concept, but the in-laws look at me all disapproving if the house is untidy. (Manic urge to tell them to wait outside next time, I have a thundering headache from the Mother-in-law’s gallons of perfume, and the Father-in-law has a habit of picking up and inspecting things that don’t belong to him. The kid has given me very stern instructions NOT to ‘leave’ any sex-toys on top of the cupboard that the F-i-l likes to have a good old nosey at.) It’s me, it’s not them. Years of the ex telling me to ‘straighten up a bit before my Dad calls.’ resulted in resentment, because it was his mess I was expected to ‘straighten.’

His standards were embedded by being raised as the blue-eyed boy who could do no wrong. A mother and an older sister idolised him when he was young, then, when his mother died, his father married the ironing gremlin, with her three daughters, and equally spoiled, and much-longed-for son. They’re weird-to-me, with their shopping-trips, and flowers, and soap operas, and chocolate, a different kind of dysfunctional. I don’t suppose there’s anything really ‘wrong’ with them, on a cosmic scale, I was just a square peg, refusing to spin in their chosen direction to fit a hole I didn’t want to occupy. I was a feral thing, the ex sometimes said that the ‘spark’ in me reminded him of his Mother, which is way too Oedipal to unpick at half past two in the morning.

I was feral because I hadn’t really been ‘raised’ by my parents, Creepy Carpet Tile Man referred to me as “An experiment, to see how far a person could be pushed, and sill remain vaguely functional.”, he has a point. A brutal, awful, impoverished, abusive childhood, with two parents who were barely functional. If there had been some sort of test that people needed to pass before having children, my brother and I wouldn’t exist. I’m covered in scars from wounds that should have been stitched, but my Dad was ‘scared of hospitals’, and my brother had a minor obsession with setting things on fire, how the two of us made it to adulthood still astounds me. Dirty, scruffy, feral children, and I have no idea how that happened, because both sets of grandparents ‘kept a nice house.’  My parents muddled through, times have changed, and there’s no point at all using my now-knowledge to reflect on all the ‘missed opportunities’ for that scruffy little girl and boy, I’ll park all of that in the ‘shit that happened’ file.

Standards, in my early development, were essentially “Do as you’re told the first time, or you’ll get a crack.” There were lots of ‘cracks’, sometimes there would be an identifiable trigger, more often not, if there had been a lovingly hand-sewn cross-stitch thing above the fireplace, it wouldn’t have said “Home sweet home.”, it might have said “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll GIVE you something to cry about.”. Dad hit us because he was an unpredictable, egocentric alcoholic, Mum hit us because Dad hit her, and she’d never really wanted us in the first place, we just tethered her to him. No fancy finishing school for me, I sit with my knees together in public because I hate the thought of uninvited physical contact, and, if you put me in a fancy restaurant with more than one knife and fork, I wouldn’t know whether to start with the inside ones, or the outside. (It’s outside, isn’t it? It has to be, it doesn’t make sense the other way. I do, however, know which side to ‘serve’ from.)

Chaotic, dirty, and very often hungry, my mother lit endless cigarettes from the gas-fire, and my father had endless ridiculous ideas to make his fortune. (Hello, direct comparison to my ex, and his stupid, expensive ‘projects.’) It was our ‘normal’, all we’d ever known, we didn’t know that other people didn’t have a goat living in the house, we just accepted that there ‘was’ a goat. We didn’t know that other people’s Dads didn’t butcher pig-heads on the manky kitchen floor, with missing tiles, and no doors on the cupboards. (I still have the scar from that, it was the only way I could tell left from right, I’ve always been a bit odd with directions.) Dirt-poor, too poor for cheesy chips in front of the TV, Jamie Oliver. Our ‘standard’ life quite frequently involved our mother, covered in tears, and snot, sometimes blood, dragging us out of bed in the middle of the night, putting our coats on over our pyjamas, and driving us to a friend’s house, ‘leaving that bastard’ again. She always reneged, and brought us back after a couple of days, though. 

I was 7, and my brother 5 when she did it properly. I’ve never asked her what the catalyst was, I always assumed it was just the cumulative toll. “More power to you.” was a line she threw me in a text-message conversation the other day, in some ways we’re similar, but not very many. She made an appalling decision in the direction she moved us in, again, I’ll file that under ‘shit that happened’, and move on. She would have been 28, so I’ll give her the points for ‘getting out’ of the abusive marriage at a younger age than I did mine, but I’ll take them away again, because she went on to marry another violent alcoholic. (I’m not awarding myself any points for staying married to an emotionally controlling, coercive egotist for nearly 20 years.)

The point of re-telling all that seemingly disjointed history does loop-around to standards. She moved us away from my father before he killed her, or one of us, she worked, and paid the mortgage on a crappy house on a rough estate, we had food in the cupboards consistently. It was shit food, and she was a terrible cook, the St Ivel Gold margarine, and the frozen curry sauce microwaved on the pickings from the Sunday lunch triggered my ‘Eating disorder not otherwise specified.’ I had no control whatsoever over any aspect of my life, so I’d periodically stop eating. Nobody noticed my little rebellions of pushing the food around my plate, and not actually putting any of it in my mouth, because we ate in front of the TV. It was never a body-image thing, it was the mid 1980s, all that malarkey hadn’t been given a name yet, it was just me controlling the only thing I could. I buggered up my appetite with that, I’ll still go days without eating at all, and I can’t stand cheap-bland food, it tastes of ‘what happened to me.’ 

Major, major issues with, and around food. The last two tabs open in my browser are Jack Monroe’s ‘Bootstrap Cook’ site, and a Google search on recipes for lobster. I know, right? Looking up 20p meals on one tab, and lobster on another. I ‘fell into’ Jack’s website quite badly yesterday, because I needed something to focus on, distract-deflect, it’s what I do. Food seemed like a relatively safe rabbit-hole for me to stick my loopy head into, and distract myself from the imminent in-laws applying their standards to a life that’s none of their business. (Side-loop, they’re prolific ‘feeders’, the father-in-law likes fat women, and the mother-in-law likes making people fat. I’m not quite “All elbows and Adam’s apple.” emaciated, like I was a couple of years ago, but I cover myself in baggy clothes, I’m like a train-wreck that’s collided with a jumble sale.) The ex didn’t like cheap food, his family aren’t exceptionally wealthy, but there was always ‘good’ food, and plenty of it. The ex was spoiled, if he didn’t fancy what his step-mum put on his plate, he’d ask for something else, and she’d make it. He thought that was normal behaviour, “I’m sorry, love, I can’t eat this, is there anything else?” I’m having a BFG-moment here, the BFG explaining to Sophie that “There is no ‘else’.” 

I’m unemployed, and disabled. There’s a frozen lobster thawing in my fridge. Have that, Jamie Oliver and crew, with your ‘poor people eat rubbish.’ theory, the kid and I are having lobster tomorrow. Stand down with the soap-boxes, I was working when I bought it. The juxtaposition of 20p meals, and suggestions for lobster would have amused me more if I wasn’t looking at the “This woman has tattoos, and mirrored kitchen tiles.” article. Other people’s standards, yet again, it’s a good thing it’s an old blog, because I’m pure outraged at some numpty commenting “Economy brand food is not nutritious.” They’re missing the point entirely, tinned pulses and frozen veg are probably more nutritious than fancy-flouncy ready-meals. Yes, there is some skills-gap, where people who were not ‘taught’ to cook-from-scratch will see own-brand chicken nuggets for 69p as a less contentious meal-choice for children than explaining what all the ‘bits’ are in something cobbled together from tins. Nobody ‘taught’ me to cook, my mother was a disaster in the kitchen, and my only concrete memories of Home Economics lessons at school are how to rescue a sponge-cake mix if you add the eggs too quickly, and carrying a Roses chocolate tin full of slightly warm chilli the mile home from school. 

Standards. I’ve stopped buying the ‘emergency’ £1 ready-meals, for the days when my cognitive fatigue makes sharp-knives-and-hot-pans a dangerous activity. That’s partly because £1 for a single serving isn’t affordable on Universal Credit, I was splitting the single meal across two meal-times. It’s more because they’re not ‘really’ food, the stress of the last year has massively flared my digestive issues, and the value-range ready meals invariably contain either wheat-gluten to thicken them, or artificial sweeteners, both of which have undesirable outcomes for me. Far-away trolls and commenters, telling poor people that a bag of carrots is 50p have different standards. I’ve siege-mentality stocked my cupboards and freezer, because I won’t be able to afford groceries soon. My work-coach has started offering me food bank vouchers, which I’ve declined, because I still have food in the house, some of the new Universal Credit claimants won’t have had time to stock up.

Gods, I went the long way around that, didn’t I? Everyone has their own ‘normal’, their own ‘standards’, and Tim Lott’s column, saying that women might have fewer mental health issues if they lowered their standards irritated me. They’re not ‘our’ standards, Tim. They’re the standards imposed on us by others. Most of us don’t want to spend hours making ourselves ‘presentable’ in line with whatever the glossy magazines tell us is aesthetically acceptable this month, some choose to, and that’s their business, not mine. I don’t think any of us enjoy ironing clothes for other people, or cleaning yet more piss off the toilet. We don’t do these things because we want to, we do them because nobody else does, and we can’t inhabit environments that hover between ‘Men Behaving Badly’ and ‘Bottom’. Asserting that ‘women’ might be happier if they didn’t expend energy being ‘nice’, or ‘good’ enraged me, because we’re expected to be both of those, continually, and unconditionally. Good-wives. 

My ex had standards that he expected the pixies to maintain. He’d stuff his rancid worn socks down the arm of the sofa, and then buy new socks when he couldn’t find any clean ones. (In his SOCK DRAWER.) He’d leave used crockery all over the house, and then suggest I ‘have a quick run around with the Hoover’, because he was expecting visitors, and the house was covered in toast-crumbs and dog-hair. I put up with that for far too long, and, when I started to challenge him on it, he’d reply “Yeah, in a minute, I’m just watching this.” His parents embedded that in him, that he could do as he pleased, and somebody else would pick up after him, they skewed their standards of acceptable ‘house-keeping’ onto me. I was ill yesterday, because I knew that they were coming, and that if they realised that I wasn’t coping, they’d judge my competency at dusting, rather than my disabilities, due to me being ‘female.’ I’m still not free of their expectations, and they’re nothing to do with me, I can’t ‘just leave it’, because they’ll see the mess, and want to help, I don’t want them anywhere near me, so I tidy to give them the impression that I’m managing.

I’ve had contact with my various parents and step-parents recently. My step-mother is a mouse of a thing, terrified of my father. My mother looks at my step-father before she speaks, as if asking permission, she has to iron his clothes just-so, and made reference to an argument they’d had recently, where he’d burned his arm on the iron after she refused to do it for him. She was messaging me as she was ironing. We’re extreme examples, I know, but the assertion that ‘women’ would be in better mental health if we stopped being ‘good’ or ‘nice’, stopped caring doesn’t work. We’re still being conditioned to care. By other people’s standards.