apocalypsehowcomm | Fifteen years from tonight ( catch-all log )

Entry tags:

Fifteen years from tonight ( catch-all log )

Who: Tim Drake and --!
When: some March event threads, otherwise throughout April
Where: Leaning toward more "out and about the beautiful city of Gloucester" and a little less ADI safety net
Summary: A catch-all log for April feat. your favorite Gotham City sidekick burnout. Closed threads as previously discussed OR jump in for inevitably disastrous CR (or try your luck at something new-- may I interest you in word/pic prompt shenanigans?)
Warnings: will be noted in subject lines but here's some biggies: oh yes there will be blood, murder, death, altered states, gaslighting, discussions of bugs, infestations, stalking

(ooc: Starters will be posted below for discussed threads-- hit me up on discord: fourboars#9298

Otherwise in an attempt to kick my butt back in gear, let's play a game. Choose a number. Or choose a pic. Or choose one of each, or go buck wild and mix and match. What kind of starter will you get in turn? Let me know any preferences (heavy thread, plotty thread, let's rescue a kitten thread, etc) and eagerly await your surprise.

1. Neck
2. Particle
3. Free
4. Power

all images are sfw
Uno
Dos
Tres *cw: insect, dragonfly

Or, of course, leave your own!)

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It's March 25th. Tim knows this, because he's at a cozy, hole-in-the-wall, peeling-wallpaper kind of bar that he should definitely not be at. He sticks out like a sore thumb: always the slacks, always the fitted, pressed shirt, always the matching belt and loafers and too much time spent on his stupid hair because there's always going to something someone will criticize about... look, it's the business world. Tim gets it. He sticks out like a sore thumb. Sure, he's... lost most of that stubborn baby fat of his cheeks, he's grown into sharp edges and good shoulders and a permanent pinch together of his brows, always stern or concerned or critical. He looks his age most of the time now.

And even if guys his age do get into bars with less than legitimate means of identification-- there's not a lot of kids here. It's cool. That's fine. Tim didn't dip in to socialize (he is so fucking done with socializing).

It's March 25th. Late, but not, like, late-late.

Tim knows this because one of the televisions, the one visible from outside, the one that had drawn him in like a moth to a flame... it's the Sweet Sixteen. Live.

It's basketball.

Tim likes basketball.

He can't remember the last time he blinked and he's pretty sure he's going to get kicked out for ordering nothing but a water, idly twirling the straw as he takes up a table all by his lonesome.

He likes being alone. It's fine.

He likes basketball. Sue him. His life got-- it's been-- the last time he sat down to watch a game was--

It's the Sweet Sixteen and Tim hadn't known. He'd been. Busy. But he knows now. Because the television is playing this live, and Tim stretches long arms across the table he's commandeered until he's practically folded across it, this absurd sight of

"Holy crap."

enthusiasm. Tim's enthusiasm. It's so stupid. It's absurd. It's really fucking sad honestly, but he's not going to think about that right now because Saint Peter's is playing in the Sweet Sixteen

"You know how I know this is a dream?" Tim asks the man who's walked up to His Table, the question high in spirits and "It's because the Peacocks are actually playing well. That doesn't happen!"

Tim is actually pretty sure he's going to get kicked out, so he peels his gaze from the magic little box hanging on the wall and he shoots his company a practiced charming disarming fake as fuck but still convincing enough little smile and

okay, smiling over.

"Holy crap," he says and okay, no, Neal wasn't supposed to hear that but. Maybe. The TV and ambient chatter of bored, assorted old people drowned out the squeak. "Hey," Tim tries again. He blinks. And remembers... how to sit at a table. In public. Like a person.

He blinks.

He tries again, stupidity frantically getting shoved back into that box in his mind that Tim swears he'll keep in check next time. Seriously. This is-- reality. Want to know how he knows he's not dreaming? He just got busted by Neal. Which is so much better than getting busted by Neil. This is Malcolm's Neal, who's probably here to grill him on... several. past. doings. that Tim's not particularly proud of but...

his eyes flick to the screen for a millisecond. Just a millisecond. Then to. Malcolm's Neal (not Neil). (There's a nauseating sense of deja vu.)

"Come here often?"

Edited 2022-04-20 21:50 (UTC)

Neal had several possible ways of opening this conversation, but all of them fall apart into a surprised laugh as Tim says Come here often?

He sits down across from the kid, raising a bottle of beer in each hand along with one eyebrow. Want one, Tim? He won't rat you out.

"You're several kinds of not my type, Tim, which is all a moot point to begin with since I'm pretty sure I'm dating your brother."

"Roommate," Tim's quick to clarify; he's teetering on the border between chipper and grounded, and it's not a secret that he'll be schooled back to his new-normal well before he rises to a high again. He didn't mean anything big by declaring Malcolm as Not-A-Brother, he swears. He just... should be keeping relationships neatly in their place. You know?

The nearly muted television says something about a closing quarter and Tim shakes his head at the offer of a beer. "Thanks but I don't... drink." He says, painfully aware that the air around them smells like beer. There's worse places to be cornered, all things considered. Tim fights the urge to peek at the game. "I ordered some fried pickles?"

He did not.

But he can make his way to the counter and pretend he did, if too much time passes. Tim pokes at the condensation on his water glass.

"I didn't know this was your scene."

Read as: the hell are you doing here. But not in a mean way, he swears. It's just... a bit of a distraction.

Neal gestures with one of the beers. Roommate, brother. Things are relative in a place like this. Neal doesn't say anything about the I don't drink comment--no judgement from him. He doesn't drink beer usually. He never drinks to get drunk.

"It's not," he says dryly. He's not going to say that he saw Tim go inside and got concerned when he didn't come out. "You're a sports guy?"

Neal is... not a 'sports guy.' It's kind of implied in the question.

Edited 2022-04-26 22:58 (UTC)

Right, right. Not a good look to point out the discrepancy between the reality of the situation and the whole rose-tinted glasses thing to his roommate's romantic partner. Tim visibly wilts a little, which is supposed to be some stand-in for a contained cringe. It's paired with a quick and quiet Sorry and

Sports. He can talk about sports without saying anything too dumb, he thinks. He nods, treacherous smile in place. "It's been a while since I got to sit through a game. Even before coming here. Basketball's always been-- I would go to games sometimes."

His dad would buy the tickets.

"When I was a kid, I'd get to invite some friends to go with me. Baseball and hockey are huge back home, and uh- I went to a soccer school once? It's not like a soccer school, the academy was just kinda known for the team and I..."

Am talking way too much, a touch too loud, and there's another sheepish, self-aware attempt to put a lid on it. But the-- it was always nice. And that's a rare thing. Sports were always just nice and sometimes he'd even get to sit through a baseball match with his dad and Dana, all bunched up in the couch of that old brownstone.

Tim catches up to the fact that he's lost his train of thought and he blinks.

(His phone rings in his pocket, and Tim absentmindedly moves hand to silence the vibrations.)

"I didn't even know it was March Madness already." He shrugs, like he's trying to play it cool. "So I saw the game playing and... uh." He says, failing to play it cool. "Dude, Jersey never gets this far."

Neal laughs at that. "Poor Jersey. Can't catch a break in any universe. Though I suppose in this one it has, at least so far."

He looks up at the TV, sips his beer, manages to not make a face, looks back at Tim. "You played soccer? Or did you like going to the games?"

Tim shakes his head, and he's surrendering with suppressing the smile. Neal is... trying. And god, he can appreciate that. Tim's eyes wander absently back to the tv as he speaks.

"You mean like, outside of playing with friends? Nah. I did end up fighting with Bruce once over whether or not I could juggle everything and the high school's tennis team. It turns out"

His phone rings again, and Tim's instinct again is to stuff it further down his pocket. He frowns a little at the inconvenience, something telling him that he... shouldn't neglect the thing. Not entirely. He shoots Neal a quick and silent "Sorry," as he digs his phone out.

Inspects the number, because this isn't an ADI-issued account on the caller ID.

The numbers are just off enough to not be his old estate's landline.

Tim abruptly stands, something desperate in the lines of his body, tense. "Sorry," he repeats louder to Neal because he knows he must look like a real case right now. He's probably just making a big deal out of nothing...

But he needs... privacy, y'know, thrown for a loop the way he is, and he ducks out of the table and evades a crash with another patron as he beelines for the door, phone tucked to his ear and answering, something generic but polite, never saying his own name because Tim isn't that stupid.

The unidentified caller replies something that has Tim turning pale, maybe looking sick. He readjusts the phone and... smooths out the front of his shirt, and he rushes out that bar door but not before yelping out a broken little, "...Dad?"

Okay, none of that was good. Neal abandons his beers and leaves a twenty with them as an apology, following Tim outside, fast.

"Dad" said like that, in any circumstance, has never been good.

Neal is crowding. Neal doesn't know that, has no way of knowing that, and yet the instant the door opens again at Tim's back he swiftly turns away. The way a starved dog and old dog would, if they were thrown a bone.

This is the best thing that's ever happened.

And

This belongs to no one but him.

Tim's stuck. His feet want to move, waste no time. He wouldn't know where to go. His father's voice is vivid and clear through the phone's speaker and... there's no rush to the man's rambling.

Why isn't there a rush to the man's rambling? Tim's stuck, and so he paces. At some point he has to acknowledge Neal again and Tim smiles flatly, dismissively, tersely, and he stops pacing just to wipe a sweaty palm against his pant leg. "Dad," he calls again, an... irritated edge mingling with the budding migraine-pain of having to cry and being unable to.

With a shaking hand, Tim gestures for Neal and starts off in... a random direction. Away from too many people. Whatever this turn of fate is, it's his treasure and Tim isn't keen on sharing more than he must. He manages to get the phone on speaker.

He's not just hallucinating, right? (It's a precaution Tim had to take, even now.)

"--my cross and silver bullet. Do you know what"

"Dad. Can I see you? Where are you?" And to heck if Tim's crying now, again with a wavering voice and wiping distractedly at the corner of his eye. He chirps up before Jack has the chance to interrupt. "I have a friend who I want you to meet! Where are you right now?"

Neal's alarm bells are going to break, they're ringing so loud. He gets the distinct impression that this isn't any of his business, but he also knows for a fact that the weirdness of Mathias could be at play in the worst possible way.

Neal keeps pace with Tim, not in his space but close enough to hear the conversation over speakerphone and to see that Tim is wiping away unshed tears. He wants to remind Tim of what's been going on, that something could be wrong, but he keeps himself quiet while the speakerphone is on.

"Hello," Neal says pleasantly. "I think I'm the friend."

There's a heavy silence and Tim shuts his eyes and scrubs them dry as his father's voice comes through again.

"Did I come all the way to Maryland just to hear my son's a-"

"Massachusetts."

It's like not a day's passed: both voices belie a calm that isn't there, become increasingly short. Tim wonders when he'll be done with his fidgeting but with his heart ringing and heavy, he can't see the end. Tim sighs, loud, impatient, hotly, and he brings his free hand to scratch at the crook of his elbow. And he talks before Jack can, again.

This... conversation cannot be getting away from him.

"Massachusetts, Dad. You're in Massachusetts, not Gotha--"

"Philadelphia. There was an investor's-"

And Tim wonders, the guy can't be bothered to ask his son how the heck he's been doing? On account of some kidnapping or... focus.

"Can I see you? Dad, please, I don't know what's going on but we're not home. Not right now. Where are you?"

Jack details the run-of-the-mill arrival process for ADI. Only, he doesn't stay to Save The World. He was going to get to the bottom of this nonsense. File a police report. Get the media involved. Only... ADI had been gracious (said venomously) enough to allow him a hotel room for a day.

And there's some more (increasingly) tense pleading on Tim's end. And Jack's voice raises to counter that Tim can surely handle himself for a day, he's feeling jetlagged and is working on getting his life back. There must have been an extra-pathetic whine on Tim's end because eventually Jack finally snaps that "Fine!"

They'll meet... at this one corner bookstore cafe. Tim gives directions. In detail. Several times over until Jack grumbles a bye and the line goes dead and Tim is shocked that his father would just hang up in him like that but. Whatever.

And that, friends, is the story of how it's... several minutes later, and Tim and Neal are at a prominent little bookstore cafe, waiting outside. And Tim's smoothing the front his shirt for the hundredth time and his head registers: oh yeah. Neal.

Tim chews his tongue and asks, "Have you heard about it? People from different times arriving here? It makes more sense when talking about... different worlds. I don't... really know about being from the same timeline, uh. But being brought from different points in it."

Neal nods silently, then figures he should probably say something. "I have heard of it. I know it's happened to a couple of people."

A pause, then, "You lost him. When you're from, in your timeline. Your dad is gone?"

It has? Well, Tim's eyes shine as he takes in the new information. This shouldn't have taken him so by surprise. But screw it: even in a messy world such as this, Tim's allowed to be blindsided like any other normal person would be.

He swallows thickly, rubs at his right wrist where he isn't wearing a watch. So many little things that he's honing in on, that are grating at frayed nerves. He needs a haircut. Something respectable.

"He died a few years ago." And then, absentmindedly, a little mantra he'd heard and told himself countless times: "And he's not coming back. But here..." Tim sighs; it feels like the millionth time he's tried to freshen the stale air in his lungs. There's comfortable seating for patrons outside of the cafe too, but Tim wouldn't find it in himself to sit.

"I have a... random. Question. For you."

Neal’s heart aches for this kid. He has to be the same age Neal himself was when he found out his own father was still alive. When he found out James Bennett wasn’t a hero who died defending the innocent, he was a crooked cop who murdered his own SO. It doesn’t show, though. Not in Neal’s voice or his tone. Nor is he inclined to find a seat when Tim is clearly too nervous to follow his lead in that area.

“Shoot.”

Look, Neal's a classy guy. Champagne tastes and all that. He knows how to dress to the nines, how to walk the walk of old money though Tim has his doubts of that being the man's origins. Blame Malcolm for that one. So, with his mind grasping fruitlessly at things he could do to not make his father's trek down town something of a letdown

(it dawns on Tim that his father has never seen him this old)

Tim puffs up a cheek. Like a pensive... chipmunk... and then he bites the bullet and just asks, "You wouldn't happen to have a Rolex to spare, would you?"

A Patek up your sleeve? The worst part being, good lord the kid's serious.

Neal raises his eyebrows, briefly, taken by surprise. That was nowhere remotely in the neighborhood of anything he thought Tim would ask.

But he gets it. He understands, instantly and all too well. Without missing a beat, he slides the (recently, illegally-acquired) watch from his wrist and offers it to Tim without preamble. “Please. A Rolex is so mid-1980s.”

His is an Audemars Piguet, lifted from a tourist on a yachting trip, and it would be worth an appalling six figures if he was interested in selling it.

Oh. Oh shit. For real?

Nice.

Tim can't help the shy bubble of a laugh, recognition passing by. He takes the watch gently, fastens it with a know-how that's kind of obnoxious, he'll admit. And yeah, yeah, it's a work of art and masterful and whatever, but the wrist watch sits heavy on him and Tim suddenly misses his 7-dollar calculator casio.

"Thanks," he whispers, unaware of the whispering. He feels utterly pathetic, and sucks in another breath to steel himself.

(Now he just needs... to think of a way to disarm his dad in regards to the... age discrepancy, the magic, the danger... Tim chews the inside of his cheek, physically unable to keep still for a second. He needs to think of a... job. Career. Maybe he should have joined the Army after all and--)

"Thanks," he says again, bravely meeting Neal's eyes for a full micro-moment. "You know... I don't-- I don't know how long this will take. I'll get this back to you by tomorrow but I really don't want you tothinkyouhavetostay."

Breathe. Keep an eye on the phone. Keep an eye on the persons coming and going and passing through.

"But you... can. If you want."

“Keep it,” Neal says, tone soft and firm. He’d be lying if he said the words weren’t a wrench, but if Tim’s father is observant, he’ll wonder where the watch went if Tim gives it back. And Neal is a good liar. “I can always crash a fundraiser cocktail party a couple of counties over and find myself a new one.”

He’s good at that too.

As for staying, well. “I’ll go if you want me to, but I’d like to stay if that’s all right.”

There’s a protective aggression starting to simmer in Neal’s chest. His tone stays the same, though. The same, with a lightly teasing edge. “I’m nosy.”

Edited 2022-06-05 02:22 (UTC)

Tim-- stammers. Looks at Neal kind of wide-eyed, kind of confused, kind of wondering what the catch is. If he was a few years younger he thinks he'd hug the guy, all impulsively and everything. His left hand goes to turn the face of the watch, and his ears burn red, and Tim's hopelessly sheepish when he squeaks out a third, "Thanks."

But he'll get the watch back to Neal-- soon, he thinks.

When his dad gets bored of interrogating him.

There's some sort of catch here, something Neal isn't telling him and something Tim can't question. With wild thoughts of tackling his father to the filthy ground in an undignified but very well deserved embrace, Tim nods again. Smiles wryly. "He's looking forward to meeting you anyway," he promises. "Dad just-- talks, sometimes. He doesn't mean it. He's nice. Honest. If you start talking art history with him..."

(Tim goes on, until he can't anymore. The sad part being that all the 'essentials' he can list of Jack's person and hobbies are said sooner rather than later, and then Tim opts for silence versus risking a wrong guess about his dad.

(The sad part being, time flies, and the sky glows a gorgeous orange-red and the clouds seem purplish. Tim steps aside to dial his dad's number. Returns to Neal and chimes that all's fine, his dad took a quick nap, he'll be here in a bit.

(The sad part being, Tim eventually wears himself down to taking a seat at a table, phone idle in his hands. The street lights flicker on. The sky is graying. He tells Neal curfew might be coming up soon. It's cool with him if the guy wants to leave, but his dad just texted that he'll be on his way--

(When he wakes up from the dream in the near future, Tim will snort a derisive little laugh at the idea that he could ever wait so patiently...)

...

And then it's night.

Tim's brain is covered in spiderwebs; he can feel the scratchy, many legs of roaches running inside his skull. That's what happens when he uses his powers just to ring someone's cell phone. Over. And over. And over again.

He glances at the watch on his wrist, tired of the blue light reflecting back into his eyes. "It's almost curfew," he presses again, too calmly for someone who has dragged Neal into hours of nothingness. "Seriously, I don't think you should get in trouble for me."

Neal is easily bored. Very easily bored. It's been a problem much of his life, a source of infinite trouble for him when the desire for entertainment won out over the practicality of staying put or staying focused. He's learned tricks, over time, to keep his mind occupied, and for the past hour or so he's been using one to keep a kind of open awareness of his surroundings going while mentally replaying the most famous chess matches of the last half-century and playing out what might have happened if a crucial move had gone a different way.

It's entertaining to him, okay, that's the important thing.

He blinks into the present when Tim speaks, calm blue eyes fixing on Tim as he smiles. "It's no trouble, Tim."

Neal almost tosses in something about how he wouldn't be a world-class thief if he couldn't get past ADI's apartment curfew, but decides that might be better left unsaid for now. He lifts his glass mug. "Besides, I haven't finished my tea."

He takes a sip and manages not to make a face at the fact that it's cold. "Do you want to go look for him?"

This isn't right, his senses whisper to him. Neal shouldn't be so composed, and instead of quieting Tim's insecurities it takes them to a head. He watches Neal sip at his tea, and then the confession spills out of him.

"I knew my dad wasn't going to show up anyway. It's why I chose this place. It... it's got comfortable chairs."

And it's open late. And it's prime for people watching, on the off chance that...

But that's Jack Drake for you, and Tim expertly keeps his voice steady. There's a disgusting mix of a heavy and sinking heart and the churning of humiliation. He faces his demons and meets Neal's eyes, at least for a moment. --he's fine, anyway. He's always gotta be fine. There's a weak smile tugging at his lips when he makes to stand. "Sorry. But it was better to play it safe."

His legs feel like lead.

All of him does. Like, if he could let that weight win and if he could sink to the floor and just never move again-- that would be okay. Tim thinks, he can't get any more exhausted. He's always exhausted. He wants to stop--

He's still holding onto the wristwatch. It would be too awkward to hand it back over tonight. Tim's smile shifts to a grimace. Time to hunt down dear old dad. That's not... right, his senses whisper to him. But what do they know? "I didn't catch the name of where he's staying. He could be halfway to Philly for all we know."

Like, he just feels so bad. He's dragged Neal into this family dysfunction. "But if you're up for a challenge...?"

Neal is easily bored. He is also tenacious. When he decides something, really decides to see a thing through, he does. Every time.

I knew my dad wasn't going to show up anyway, Tim says, and Neal's heart breaks a little more. He gets to his feet and offers Tim a hand up.

"I'm always up for a challenge. Maybe we can sneak back to the office, access their phone records. See where his call came from."

A pause, clear hesitation, but he forces himself on. Tone still casual. "I know a little something about dads who don't show up."

God, it's so... embarrassing. Tim does take the offered hand with pinkish ears. He can practically see Dick trying to keep his cool through the diss of a no-show, but that's erring on the side of a wayward wannabe hallucination. This isn't his brother, it's Neal.

(Tim's alone here.)

He chuckles nervously, in no mood to entertain a Talk on behaviors from his father that Neal won't understand entirely, though the sympathy is contagious. "It happens," he explains. And that's that.

It's a good idea to scour through ADI records. Tim nearly literally kicks himself for it as they begin to head towards the administration building.

"ADI... let him keep one of their devices. My dad said No to their offer of saving the world for bragging rights. To be honest I haven't... paid attention to what happens when someone just walks away. But if the Warden's correct, he's already been touched by magic just by being brought here. He's a target."

(And Tim's voice changes then, though he still can't figure it out himself. His father's a target; of course he's going to get colder, harder.)

"They are monitoring my dad, maybe even more than they monitor us."

Because--

"He's bait."

Neal isn't following the jumps, exactly, but he's somehow disinclined to argue. Tim's rising urgency is infectious. "Bait? Bait for what? Why...?"

[4 Uno me, baby.]

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Fifteen years from tonight ( catch-all log )

Walking Hell - closed - let's get that teal deer nice n warmed up

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tldr, cw: implied homophobia

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cw uhhh depressive thoughts

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