Fifteen years from tonight ( catch-all log )

[ployboy]

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!)

Comments

[ployboy]

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."

[conning]

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.”

[ployboy]

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.

[conning]

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.

[ployboy]

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."

[conning]

“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.”

[ployboy]

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."

[conning]

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?"

cw uhhh depressive thoughts

[ployboy]

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...?"

[conning]

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."

[ployboy]

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."

[conning]

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...?"