Date: 13 Aug 2021 16:27 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (We'll be just fine)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
It's fine, he wants to say. But it's not. Whatever keeps the man that high on alert and robs him of the most basic peace of sleep can't possibly be fine. And it's kind of a pain when someone tells you it's fine when you know it's absolutely not. Tim nods, like he gets it.

"I lived alone too," he says. "I emancipated but I was on my own for a while before then, anyway. Being here just reminds me of being back in boarding school, honestly. I guess that's one reason why I hate feeling trapped here." But back to the... relating. "Man, everyone's got problems. No 9 AM quiz of world history? Already an improvement to Brentwood."

Date: 13 Aug 2021 20:40 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (Tell me honey)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
Crap. The neuroticisms
track. This is like looking in a mirror, and just tells Tim that he should never really think about... a future. Tim manages to look sympathetic without knowing if he's, like, supposed to or not. "Yeah? It's like I was off to a new one every other semester. That last one- Brentwood. The dean had a dog so I'd give it, like, half my dinner every night so I could slip curfew."

Nothing was ever Elan levels or even remotely close to. It was just-- boarding school. Eagerly waiting for phone calls from home, or postcards for the holidays saying that his parents were home, reminding him that he's not. It's a lot of... gray. Feelings. A lot of his life is like that, though.

"I thought you were a cop, though?"

Double crap, he was not supposed to say that. Also: holy prejudice, Batman. Tim is glad he wasn't drinking. The kid backpedals. Hard. Eyes wide like he's surprised himself with that. "Uh-- I didn't mean that."
Edited (misspellings sshhh) Date: 13 Aug 2021 20:43 (UTC)

Date: 13 Aug 2021 21:21 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (Way back when we said)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
Like looking in a mirror.

Save for the afflicting spontaneous combustion.

Maybe.

"That's cool."

Maybe.

"I dropped out."

Which he offered, why?

"At least ADI doesn't require much for now."

cw school shootings, death

Date: 13 Aug 2021 23:17 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=beruna> (I had to go get my crystal ball)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
Funny enough, no one's up and asked him that. Tim keeps the bitter satisfaction tightly under wraps. He's seen the tabloids and given interviews, he's fairly certain Alfred or B had to have fielded questions from Vale and the like. And Tim knows Bruce Wayne can make questions disappear from everyone's mind.

But Bruce hadn't asked him, either. Bruce had come home. And he had never asked.

Tim's eyes storm over for a moment, and he's aware. He studies Malcolm and then just. Shrugs. "Things got hectic," he explains. He used that one with Ives. ...it hadn't worked out. Tim keeps quiet then continues, steady. He won't say anything that an internet search wouldn't have uncovered, back home. It still-- stings. It was still real. "Things were getting out of control in the city. We were looking like Baghdad."

Funny enough? He would know.

Tim taps his foot against the floor. It's just. some. residual frustrations. Makes it look authentic. (Jesus Christ, Drake. Not the time.)

"The gangs started shooting. I was actually back in public school. We were in the midst of it. Some of my friends... didn't make it." And that's it. Tim shrugs again.

Thinks, okay, so he's more tired than he thought.

"I didn't see the point after that. It wasn't an immediate drop or anything. And things got better but I just couldn't bring myself to care."

...

"My best friend and my girlf-- ex, they got ticked but I don't blame them. It's not like I told anyone I was gonna ditch. And it's not like it's mattered much either."

Date: 14 Aug 2021 00:52 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=wittystairs site=livejournal.com> (Birds of the same feather)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
Not-A-Cop knows his DSM-5.

Rightly so, Tim reminds himself. And to be even more generous to Malcolm, that was the picture Tim had shoved forward. It was one that made sense.

Like, hell, now that he's-- removed from it? Yeah. There's a reason Dick had been so concerned when

then why is he fighting to keep from bristling. "Like I said," Tim repeats, "things got better."

Debatable. But he nods, doesn't shy from Malcolm's gaze. "I got better, too."

Date: 14 Aug 2021 02:11 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (It'll pass just like everything else)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
Huh. This went badly. Tim's left-- damn it, he doesn't know. He doesn't know how he feels, thoughts at war with what he feels he'd be safe to say. And if he doesn't know then it must not be important.

(He knows the man's just throwing him a bone and it should incense him but what-- what is he supposed to do with this? The dude's just believed him like Tim's supposed to be trustworthy or something.)

Tim stares at his cup mournfully. Taps his foot against the floor. He shouldn't have talked about the schools. It's all blurred and murky, history butting heads with what should have been.

"Does lemon ginger chamomile tea usually help you sleep?" he asks.0

Date: 14 Aug 2021 04:35 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (Way back when we said)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
It's the little things that keep building; can't even crack a joke about horse tranquilizers. Tim snorts and shakes his head again. Even if nothing was supposed to be funny. "It's good," he offers lamely, cautiously. He's pretty sure he's lost his high breeding and good manners in the last years, too. "Thanks."

Date: 14 Aug 2021 15:08 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (Talk all night)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
"No," he says. He even sounds a little relieved, if only because he didn't even have to think about it. No, the nightmares were worse as a kid. They'd been constant.

Now he can't remember the last time he dreamed. His mind's not built for that anymore. And he gets it, alright? He gets he has to take it as well as he's dished it out, and it stops Tim from bolting. "I don't know what it is, just that it's nothing new. And nothing to worry about."

Date: 14 Aug 2021 17:00 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (We'd both be millionaires)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
And here he'd been proud of keeping a straight face.

"I'm fine."

Rote. Practiced. Tim would argue, it's true too. But he presses his tongue to the backs of his teeth and lowers his shoulders that one fraction they had hitched up. There is no they in question, here. And damn it he wants to clarify that.

"Seriously," he presses. Stands his ground, figuratively, and sighs back until the back of the chair presses against him. "Being told it's you versus the end of the world will screw anyone up. It's nothing important."

Date: 14 Aug 2021 17:31 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (Said come on in)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
Detective, much?

Tim glares at his mug.

Moody, much?

He raises his brows, borderline-- really freaking exasperated, honestly. His alibi is at the ready at least. "Is that not what an 'Apocalypse' is?"

Date: 16 Aug 2021 15:22 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=wittystairs site=livejournal.com> (Except a feeling in the air)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
The jerk did that on purpose.

Tim frowns.

"I do," he admits like he's fighting against keeping his mouth clamped shut. If just because Not-A-Cop will see past his bullshit anyway. "There's always work to do. It's not a big mystery. Or problem. I appreciate the concern, though."

Spoilers, he does not.

Date: 16 Aug 2021 17:01 (UTC)
ployboy: <user name=eyecons> (You've been here before)
From: [personal profile] ployboy
"You said it, not me," he mutters. But the olive branch is recognized and Tim can find it in him to smirk, if only for a second before his expression smooths back into nothingness.

He's made mistakes here. Noted. The worst part being that he always knew how to avoid them but, well, it's... nice. That Malcolm's concerned.

Tim's hand grips the handle of his mug, "I think the tea did help."

It's time for a retreat.

Tim makes to stand. "Thanks," he tries again. Awkwardly, boyishly. Genuinely. Go out on a high note and hide your head in the sand elsewhere. "I'll be in my room."
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