Log - OTA! - What’s the difference between a corpse and a shirt?

[bossyboiler]

Who: Everyone.
When: Wednesday evening, Jan 11th
Where: A rented out bar, downtown.
Summary: The wake for George Milton.
Warnings: N/A (will update as needed)

If anyone of the forcibly kidnapped to Gloucester deserved to be remembered, it was George Milton. In many ways, he was the best of them. He had been kind. He had always been willing to help and lend a hand. Unlike some whose first choice was violence (because what else was there), he had chosen to forgo that route and had come up with a much more clever solution. The solution saved lives.

It had not felt right to have a formal service for him. To put it simply, he was not a formal person. And so after much calling around, a bar had been found where they could rent out the entire place before business got too busy. It was just for a couple of hours. People could come and say nice things about George. It's what he deserved after all.

So come on in, have a beer or two, and sit a spell. Maybe you'll feel like sharing a story about George or maybe you're just there to pay your respects. There's a break in the weather, the clouds only filling up half of the nighttime sky. No acid snow for tonight.

Comments

[ployboy]

The privilege of growing up, one that Tim has his wars with, right now just means it's easier to do what he wants and not care what anybody else may think.

It's a little awkward, physically, because Malcolm is sitting and Tim is not, but he embraces the man regardless. He's careful of Malcolm's hands, he's careful to not press tight until or unless there's some permission. But Tim also just as quickly makes himself comfortable with pressing one side of his head to Malcolm's. He says, "It hurts to lose a friend this way. I know. And I'm so sorry, Malcolm. I know George was a friend of yours."

[abrightboy]

It surprises him, that Tim hugs him. Not in the same way that Kate’s hug surprised him… though he also isn’t always sure Tim likes him either. But he returns it with his free arm, squeezing his eyes shut.

“The others might be alive,” he whispers back. “You are. You came back. But George is dead. Really dead. I didn’t even know he went to that fight.”

[ployboy]

Fondness floods him, and Tim can't find it in himself to feel bad for feeling comfort in his own gesture. His body moves on its own accord and Tim's hand touches the back of Malcolm's head just for a moment before he pulls back, a loose grip, a connection, still on Malcolm's shoulders. The others might be alive. "Maybe," Tim agrees and he doesn't say that maybe not.

l̵o̸n̴e̵l̷i̵n̶e̷s̷s̶ ̸+̴ ̸a̶l̸i̶e̴n̴a̷t̶i̵o̴n̷ ̵+̷ ̷f̸e̷a̷r̸

George is dead. There is no death until you see the body, though.

d̴̡͙̝̘̩͍͇̈́̇̽ȩ̶͇̹͍̯̻͆̏͘s̶̝̦̥̞̾̒̚͠p̸̡͓̬̱̪̌̀̔̊̊́͘ȃ̷͈ͅi̵̬͎̪̲͒͊̀́̊r̶̫̍̈͊ ̷͙̙̋͠͠+̷̫͐͊̄ ̵͓̹͚͑͜s̴̡̲̩̤͈͆͐̈́̃̑̀͠ͅĕ̴̡̻̱͛̌͑̒̿̅l̷̝͖̫̦̤͈͈̈́̓͌̀̓f̴̘̲͇̝̝̪͋͑̌̈̉̈́̕-̶̛̤̯͉͇̍̍͑͊͂̆w̸͓̌͛̍͆ṏ̴̲͉̦̬́͗̃r̶̼̬̳̿͂̅́͗͘̚ͅt̵̗̤̼͝ẖ̷̫̌̅͝ ̴̝̱̞̌̃̀̌̈́̒̔÷̸̨͍͍̟̈́̈́́̑̕͠ ̷̮͚̻̘͉̻̙͗͒͋m̷̱̯͛̋̂̂̃̚͠o̷̟̦̜̎̈́̑̓̏͜c̶͚̺̳̺͇̙͚̓̂͋̍k̴̯̠̽̂̽͜e̵̝͋͛͛͜͝r̶̙̉̄̚y̶͇͓̞̅͐̈́ͅ ̶̫̦̘̙͍̫̪͆̑÷̵͚͂̿̌͜͝͠

And sometimes not even then.

Tim can't get the image of Conner out of his mind for a second and he has to look away, remember to breathe. A big fight, a big hero, a bigger sacrifice. Tim can't even say this man's death was for the greater good because, well, he's missing some big details here.

At least the man's at peace. In a better place: unconscious.

But that's just callous, man, Tim's not gonna say it.

c̸̡̹̬̊̀͊̉͂̚ọ̶̲̹̦̾̓͝ͅn̶̢̧̖͎̰̝̞̺̦̎̃̿̋́̆̃̈́̕d̷͙͚̘̄͗́̽͛̕͝͠é̶̢̧̤̦͕̰̠̬̻̩̬̊͛m̴̧͎̬͈̘̞̱̣͇͕̫̌́̃͌ņ̵̨͍̯̏̆̍́͋̈̀̒͌a̸̢̛̫͙̟̪̬͍̰͈̐͆̆̿̆̒͐̇̿͠t̴̳͆̓͐̓̉̽̈͘i̵͍̳̺̲͗o̸̯̪̾͒ͅͅṋ̴̢̼̯̘͓̜̖̃͂̈̒̈́̂̿̂̓ͅ ̷̳̺͚̥̊÷̵̡̱̘́̒̌͌̽̒͜ ̴͍͔̪̼̙̹̺̔̓͋͝m̸̺̞̝̖̬̰̺̖̪͉͛̅̉͗̾i̵̢̬͓̩̳̦͈͓̻̹̾̾̆́̀̓̈͗̇̈́͝s̷̤̳̮̅͌̀̎̓̐̍͑̆̃ȕ̸͎̗̲̀́̊ň̸͎̞͑d̴̰͔̻͗̿̍̎͗́̌̕̚͝ḛ̵̃͝r̷̢̦̱̳̖͇̜̈́̆̊͋͌͆̐̈́̎̈ş̷̛̱̆͆̒́̌̑̄͘͠ț̶̡̢̰͕̤̰̓̎̿͒͑̈́͜͠a̴̛͇͍̼̞̗͎͙̗̔̾͑̆͘ņ̶͇̣̽̈

"It feels different, doesn't it?" he murmurs.

[abrightboy]

"Different than just absence?" He nods, the hand that wrapped around Tim in kind now loosely gripping his elbow still. "But it's just... added on top. Almost everyone that was a family here with me is gone now. It's still better than... going back. Neal is still here." He looks around to find him nearby with his eyes before turning back to Tim, like he wants to make sure he didn't jinx it by saying so. He would never have something that good in his life at home. "But it's not like it was."

[ployboy]

He slides smoothly into a seat, subdued and the world welcoming and gray. There's a lot to unpack and address, and a lot to commiserate.

"You really rather stay here?"

[abrightboy]

“Yeah. Since really early on. But.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s on purpose. Them bringing people and then taking them. To feed.” He looks at Tim. “I mourned you.”

[ployboy]

He lets out a breath at that theory. It's as soft as incredulity will let him make it, because if that's the Fears doing their thing, his world has a lot more to answer for.

Tim looks down at his shoes, finally releasing his weak hold on the closet connection he has here. "I think that's just how things are," he argues. Mildly.

People come, they go.

They go, and go.

He's still looking down at his shoes when he says, "I'm usually the one mourning others. If you knew me before... you'd just be saying I took a wrong turn backpacking through Europe."

[abrightboy]

Malcolm doesn’t release his.

“I didn’t know you before. I thought we were building something here.”

cw death talk, some SI talk, more alcohol and under 21

[ployboy]

When Alfred Pennyworth declares a kid at no fault for drinking at the tender age of Sixteen, there's no room for surprise when said kid, some years later, takes him at his word. Tim meets Malcolm's eyes long enough to distract- he offers a pained ghost of a smile and goes for the whiskey.

He just wants to play with it, honest. Because if there's a whiskey type of conversation then this is probably it.

"Nobody even looked for me before," he says. It's a lie but it doesn't feel like one. Tam found him on order of her father: Lucius Fox needed Tim Wayne back home for business affairs. It-- feels different. "There was a long time that I didn't believe anyone would mourn me if I... not because I didn't matter, but because there really wasn't anybody left."

He pauses, feels light and heavy as he ponders.

"For whatever it's worth, I don't think I died."

He would have probably fought harder to stay gone.

No, some rational whisper flashes in his head. No he wouldn't. He didn't mean that.

He doesn't know.

He taps his foot. "I still don't understand it. I don't think it matters anymore. Uhm. I do know it's harder to move forward when someone-- returns. Just like they left. Just like that. But. I never would've-- I don't know what happened, but I wouldn't have just left without... I don't want to hurt people like I've been hurt, y'know? But I do anyway."

Steph. Kon. Bart. Cassie, Bruce. Jeff that bastard. Tim's hand shakes. He hates... this. Feeling heavy and light all at once.

[abrightboy]

“You were hurt in Wolf Pen. I didn’t know what to think. I… know what I hoped.” He pauses. “How’s your new apartment? Do you have roommates? Or. Did you go to Bonnie’s instead?”

cw assume there's under 21 alcohol consumption from here on out lol

[ployboy]

He doesn't know how to steady his hands. Even the one holding the glass still has a slight tremor. Tim's better at cutting off that manifestation of alarm, usually. But for now, as an experiment of sorts, he drinks from the whiskey again. It certainly doesn't taste better but with Tim knowing what to expect it's maybe not as bad. (Spoiler alert, it is.)

"Maybe everything's been a side effect?" He lamely guesses. Then shrugs. "I said the Bonnie's thing to get under your skin." Which is something he wouldn't have easily admitted to before.

"And knowing about the memorial... no, I'm actually in room B-3. Same hall, like literally almost neighbors." But not, because Malcolm and Neal have a whole house to themselves. "I'm staying with Rue. So no, I'm not alone."

[abrightboy]

"You could have just said you don't want to live wherever I live," Malcolm points out helpfully. Which he kind of did. But just say things, Tim, no need to be subtle.

"The bird tailor from the Network? They seem nice," he says genuinely.

[ployboy]

"They are nice," he agrees. It's quiet for a second as Tim explains away the slight from Malcolm. Always saying what makes him feel bad over... just standing up for himself.

Tim swirls the glass, enjoys the clink of ice as it touches the sides. He could totally finish off the drink just to make a point, he thinks, but admits that is nothing but childish fantasy.

"You know that I was living alone before being brought here. Right? I don't know if I got too used to it. It's not that I don't want to live with you here. I'm happy you're going to be with Neal, and you're not going to be alone. You know that, right?"

[abrightboy]

"I didn't know that," Malcolm tells him. "Until you said it. Thank you."

He doesn't pluck his glass from Tim's fingers, just watches him fidget with it.

"You actually haven't really seemed pleased to see me since you got back, until..." He gestures towards where Tim embraced him when he arrived for the wake. "Just here. I thought maybe I did something or... said something." It's usually that he says something.

[ployboy]

Why does this always happen.

Tim sighs, and he pulls the hand with the whiskey back (because he sees that look, Malcolm). What, is he supposed to heap it all on his shoulders and tell him it's not you it's me?

This is exhausting. He blames the alcohol for the slow unraveling of thoughts he has mulled over several times. "I was overwhelmed, and neither one of us is good at navigating big surprises. But I wasn't going to let you go a second alone here. So it doesn't matter."

[abrightboy]

"You wouldn't have left if Neal wasn't there?" Malcolm confirms, in case he's misunderstood.

[ployboy]

Bruh. Tim, out of spite, sips his drink.

"I don't know."

He literally just said--

[abrightboy]

"But what about you?"

He wasn't, primarily, worried about himself. He didn't want Tim suffering alone somewhere.

[ployboy]

That's it, he's officially lost track of what's going on. Tim catalogues the wake, Mr. Milton, the fish cookies and Kate. And he finishes the whiskey, because he deserves this. But it's still a fun distraction to move the ice around. So he does.

What about him, what?

It's a good thing he's practiced for such an occasion. "I'm fine."

[abrightboy]

"Yeah. Me too," Malcolm replies just as glibly. "But we worry about you," Malcolm tells him in a more sober tone. "We just want you to be safe. We want to know you're... around. We want you to know that we're here for you."