[Tim looks abruptly away. It's gone from 'hot' to nice isn't usually 'his taste', thus imply that he, Tim, is his-...?
Nope, no, no way. He's not having this conversation. He's not thinking about this. Queer or not, there are some lines in the sand, and a line in the sand absolutely has to be the mentally unwell pantomime of the guy who'd gut most of yours family without blinking.
He's flattered, but disturbed, and the effect makes him jumpy. Perhaps John might see a little of himself in the vague twitches, the mental calculations, the almost panic at the roundabout compliment.
He doesn't quite know how to swallow it, so he focuses back at the movie, which reaches back out to him in 3D and makes him jump a little in his chair.
[ Tim, honey pie. You are fellow Batfam covered in Bruce Wayne fingerprints. That's like THE type. You don't even need to be flattered, he's just insane like that. For John it's way less to do with exploring his queerness and far more to do with finding those lines in the sand, no matter what tools he has to leverage. It's an odd shade of Getting To Know You but, to be fair, Someone Who Shall Remain Unnamed fucked this guy up before he even had a chance.
Someone before Bruce Wayne, maybe.
John very much catches the mirror of his own typical vibe and it's probably the worst possible reaction, because it endears him all the more. Bruce is strong and smart and handsome but he doesn't do Cute very well. Tim, opposing John, wears his awkward uncertainty in an unintentionally flattering manner.
His sharp shoulders slant sideways and this time the invasion of Tim's space is measured, and not Way Too Much, way too fast. Instead it's just as much as he thinks he can get away with... so he can reach into that bag of surrendered gummy bears, and thief a few of them back.
He executes the candy ursine in the very same way Tim had, demonstrating his devilishly detail-orientated ability to exactly mimic behaviors.
He signs 'thank you' with a little extra teasing finesse; his smirk is slightly sated sadism, clearly he is enjoying flustering his new friend. ]
Not afraid of The Joker unless he flirts with you? That's... no that's actually completely fair
[ He finishes that trail of thought nodding empathetically-- but still smirking like an imp. ]
I'm sorry. No biting, Scout's Honor. [ He holds his hand up straight and shows Tim his palm, as though preforming the swear; the especially smooth and pale skin of his scar through the center of his hand catches the silver light of the screen as he does. ]
[Here's the thing. Tim's struggled his entire life with intimacy, in a way... others in his orbit just didn't. Bruce Wayne was flawlessly sexy, went to galas, chatted up ladies... but even Bruce said he felt that was the cowl he put on, the mask and persona, and that solitary Batman in his endless refrain of a tango with his rogue's gallery was the real him.
Dick Grayson? Catnip on a platter, and if no one else ate him right up, he was fine touting his own sexiness across town like he owned it-- something so ephemeral, so difficult to have mastery of, body confidence.
Jason Todd is where things drop off a little, but Tim had been raised shoulder to shoulder with Ariana and Steph, who'd tried to seduce him outright and he'd begged off it. That maybe should have been his first clue about his sexuality. Hot girl on a bed offering herself up willingly and enthusiastically, and you say let's wait? Hmm.
Then there were... less savory moments. Stolen kisses that left him baffled, or the time he was strung up in Ras' weird cavern with the man's sister proudly proclaiming her intention to assault him before Cass saved his ass... literally.
Tim isn't aware he's good looking, if he is. Conventionally, he probably is. He's slim, but built, with enough muscle to make every angle and curve perfection, but not so built as to announce itself under clothing. He has the trademark "Wayne" jet hair and deep, soulful blue eyes. The fact that women throw themselves at him should be a clue. He's strong, but it comes in size "small"-- tall by Starbucks logic only. Handsome and modest is hard to come by in super circles, but he fits the bill. (No Drake pun intended.)
But when men even nudge in his direction, much less make themselves obvious? Something in his stomach does a little dance, and something balls up in his throat, and he gets pink, and over-warm, and wants to laugh. Like, an unsettled laugh. Like, he can't help it.
But he manages to. He tucks hair awkwardly behind and ear and tries not to watch John eat a gummie in homage to the way he had, tries not to hyper-focus on the word 'flit' or 'bite', and tries not... to stare at that scar.
In the end seat, he really does feel like a caged bird.]
Guys don't usually hit on me.
[That he notices, anyway. There is this one blond, though...]
[ Tim's got a lot of Psychological Maths behind his reaction to John's blatant flirtation; on flip side, John's attraction is leveraged in just the same way. Of course it isn't as simple as base physical attraction, but John will certainly paint it up that way for this Meet Cute at the movies. It's Damage as much as inclination that draws John to Tim, but the resulting gravity is the same.
It isn't as though none of his attraction is physical, either; aside those charming blue eyes, Batman towers over John without actually being any taller than him, and the same can be said of Harley Quin. Even Robin has more grandeur about him, a certain admirable theatrical flare, but Tim? ]
No Shorty, you don't N-O-T-I-C-E guys hitting on you.
[ He corrects Tim with a Cheshire smile; maybe John can recognize that antsy almost anxious energy-- after all, he laughs when he's nervous, too. That's the truth.
He catches Tim trying not to stare at the slice through his moon-pale palm, and his head tips like an observant but docile predatory thing. ]
Curious? [ He pauses his signing to offer Tim a better look at his scar. Yup, that was %100 from crucifixion via batarang. Beneath the sleeve drawn up to elbow are the softest whispers of surgery scars, remnants of the operations required to set pins and bars into his twice shattered arm. ]
From my Ex. Sexy Bastard.
[... okay he's out of line but he's not exactly wrong. ]
[Almost any topic is better than pathetic floundering, at this point. Why is he so bad at human attraction? Like the Owl with the Tootsie Pop, the world may never know how many licks it takes to get to the center of that lollypop.
So whereas he usually might have shied away from discussing someone's bodily injury-- it's rude to stare, and scars are plentiful in his line of work, he finds them beautiful in some cases, tragic in others, and poetry in almost all-- he lets the tide of the conversation be dragged away by this new thread of conversation.
(...fuck this movie, he supposes. He's lost the plot entirely by now.)]
Didn't mean to stare.
[Maybe he hadn't had to give that away; surely John didn't know where he was looking, behind those glasses? But honesty is a fault line of Tim's.
And then John says 'my Ex', and Tim knows who that means, and groans aloud. A thin, deep sound that rumbles just under the soundtrack of the film.
It's from Bruce. And if it's from Bruce-- well, he knows a batarang wound when he sees one.]
[ Terrible metaphor to use around a clown with an insatiable sweet tooth-- in this case terrible is to mean 'perfect'. How many licks indeed?
The movie is incidentally far less interesting than the company. Tim's gaze wasn't exactly obvious-- the sharp witted fellow flashed his palm on purpose, meant to draw Tim's attention there, waited until he caught that flickered gaze of smothered attention. He makes a dismissive yet friendly gesture to Tim's initial implied apology; he isn't offended, he's happier for conversation and company than to be left alone with his own (and His own) thoughts.
That exasperated groan, just barely loud enough to turn a few heads, spawns a badly smothered storm of chuckles twice as loud. Tim's grievance here doesn't exactly have to be personal; any person could react along the same line seeing such scars left from "an Ex".
Still... The man with the haunting hazel eyes seems quite satisfied to have earned that particular shade of disapproval from his brand new friend of which he knows nothing about. He doesn't even seem to notice the irritated stares as his amused chuckles slowly simmer down. His teasing expression almost has a sense of 'made you blink', or something very like it. ]
When you're right, you're right. Horrible, horrible taste in men!
[ Then his charm skips like a scratched CD, his eyes go owlish-wide and he blinks a few times as he realizes exactly how he's just insulted Tim. If this was someone like Harley, even someone like Bruce, John might flinch away for fear of the offence he might have caused. Instead, he clamps a hand across his mouth to smother another stream of laughter that is... not quite malicious, not unfriendly, and certainly a little bit nervous. ]
Sorry! [ He manages to sign with his free hand, shoulders trembling as he represses most of his exuberant reaction. ] I said you seem nice! N-I-C-E
[There's a brow furrow of confusion... before he connects point A to point B.
Oh.
Horrible taste in men. Flirting with him. Got it.
He wasn't super insulted, for two reasons.
Reason A: Very distracted. The audience is glaring daggers at them for the bubbling giggles frothing up from their corner during a scene that is Decidedly Not Funny. Forget cell phones or loud chatting-- this is jarring, dislocating, worse. Tim wishes he could apologize on John's behalf, but he both knows that would make the crowd madder and thinks it would make John laugh harder.
Reason B: He wasn't wrong. Flirting with Batman's sidekick, with a face like his? Horrible, horrible taste in men. Flirting with Bruce Wayne's son? Horrible, horrible taste in men. Flirting with someone who'd stalked you to a theatre to make sure you didn't harm yourself or others and was now spoiling the film by conducting the world's strangest signing conversation? Horrible, horrible taste in men.
Tim shakes his head.]
It's okay. I doubt I'm actually your type. No harm, no foul.
I'm not very social, so we probably will split after the film. But in the meantime, I promise...
Don't count your chickens before they fly, Shorty. You don't know me, you don't know what I like
[ And then he picks up his charming demeanor like he never dropped it in the first place; truly, this man is chaos. Fractured personalities do be like that sometimes. Despite the fact that he's being a lowkey menace to the general public (or maybe, along with that) John is... actually having a decent time? And no one is dying? There are no bombs? Nothing is on fire? It's a serious victory whether Tim knows it or not.
Flirting-slash-poking-fun at a cute guy at the movies is so... mundane. John could use a few more mundane activities in his day to day. ]
Antisocial, and bites on command? Stop, I'm getting light-headed... [ He's laying it on extra thick now, fanning his fingers across his chest and "swooning" in his chair. He's teasing Tim now, a few stray notes of friendliness undercutting the seriousness of his flirt; he's being mischievous, not malicious. Almost, almost playful, in the way that wild, fanged things can be.
And then some jackass behind him kicks the back of John's chair, hard enough to knock him out of his 'fainted rag doll' posture and forward into the seat in front of him. Apparently in the theater's darkness, it was easy enough to miss the potentially fatal green hair, white skin, and clown-style points of John's appearance, but damn if this guy's homophobia didn't function in the dark. ]
Fags [ the random neck-beard dude snarls in the distain of the incredibly idiotic. Now, could John knock out this guy's teeth? Absolutely. But he is trying to behave himself, and this is not a date BUT if it was, he would be on his best behavior, especially. So instead of immediate extreme violence, he twists up into his seat proper, grabs his drink from the cup holder, and pours the liquid-ice-and-candy-syrup-mess right over Mr. Social Critic's lap.
His arm just so happens to settle around the back of Tim's chair on the way back down. He isn't looking sideways though, his chin is tipped all the way up, sending his acidic glare backwards to the trio of aggressors getting puffed up over that spilled drink.
Seeing John's (upside-down) face directly, the Bros Three look uncertain if they want to invite him outside over the strife; for the moment, it's a silent stalemate while they each weigh their wounded pride against their common sense. ]
[He was about to say 'Don't keep calling me Shorty' when the stab of the word fags hits his eardrums like a knife.
Maybe it was an errant insult. A throwaway. Surely the dullards didn't know signing; surely they couldn't see the makeup on one man, the sweet face of the other, or the slight build of both. Maybe it was like a candy wrapper tossed on the sidewalk finding the wind. Or maybe, it was because of the high-pitched nature of the laughter emanating from John.
Tim didn't care.
He was a beat behind John, because he spared the time to put his candy aside (didn't want to cause the cleanup crew any grief) and whip off his glasses. And if his hood fell somewhere in between untangling them from his face and the rapid turn he made to backwards to look at them, well, he just didn't care in this moment.
No, this was personal. Personal to Tim Drake. And Tim Drake didn't have to play by Robin's rules.
He'd sit up on his knees in the chair, hugging to the back, not noticing or minding the placement of John's arm. Suddenly, they were a team. United by that single blistering word. And Tim's face, now fully visible (if backlit), would be a flatline of an expression as the three gruffs decided if they wanted to tango on that note or not.]
That's right, I'm a fag, and this fag could kick your butt from Tricorner to the Bowery, so you wanna dance? Not really my type, for the record; I usually don't go for narrow-minded and thick-skulled, I kinda prefer open-minded and thicc-comma-periodt. So. Your play, chucklefucks.
[It was more aggressive than he usually got. But he was seated next to the man who looked like the Joker, and he slid into the old moniker of 'side kick' well enough. He'd heard Harley talk smack before, loads of times.
And besides. When it came to Pride? He'd call it like he saw it: you were tolerant, or you were the biggest chuckle of the fucks.
Jason loved that word. He wouldn't mind sharing, Tim was sure.]
[ There's still a notable divergence in this sudden partnership; Tim is insulted, and so is John-- but he's also excited, enticed. He feels that way even when an enemy comes ay him with a weapon in hand, electrified by the possibility of violence, charged by the promise of it. Somewhere at the beginning of Tim's rant, the cunning clown clicks his tongue and cocks his head in swank, gaudy approval and suddenly he's got his shiny fuchsia phone in hand, recording.
He is not in fact streaming the encounter-- this is for John's personal collection. But the Homophobes Three get extra ape-ish at the notion of some imagined audience judging the size of their dicks. ]
Short King Tim versus, The Chuckle Fucks Three! Who will prevail? Showdown at Fuck Around and Find Out O'clock!
[ Ala his Cheshire cat vibe John remains upside-down for a few beats as he records and plays announcer at once; he keeps his eyes locked on the ruffled aggressors as he twists to face them directly, his motions eerily boneless and too smooth, like a contortionist trained for horror films.
Regretfully this does have John taking back his arm for a moment. Purely for theatrical effect, and to drive their joint defiance, he drapes one lengthy silk-sleeved arm around Tim's shoulders proper, instead. His fingers coil one by one, each locking deliberately around the deceptively smaller stature of Tim's shoulder. ]
Any takers? Givers? Pitchers? Catchers? Entertain us, I double dare you
[... aaaand now the extremely stressed theater staff are shuffling in with flash lights, trying to disappear into the bad carpet before they actually have to approach this hot mess of a conflict. ]
[Okay… for the record, Tim also doesn’t love this being recorded, for public or private consumption. But he feels confident in his ability to hack into the phone later and delete the video if need be… and also pretty confident that at current angles he hasn’t yet made a cameo.
He doesn’t mind the arm around his shoulders, in this instance. It lends a nice weight and tethers them together as teammates and unlikely victors. Small, skinny frames; but John had an unnerving quality and Tim had an unyielding one and both seemed to glitter with the urge to dare this group into action with the confidence of predators whose teeth joyfully await first blood.
The patrons, by Tim’s reckoning, were showing signs of backing off; discussing an exit strategy that involved a bathroom stop to wash the sticky slush out.]
Must hate us because they’re no good at pitching or catching. [Muttered to John, under his breath.] Real bench warmers, these guys.
[... Tim, listen, John totally has an issue over-estimating the commonality he crosses in other people. Does he have things in common with Bruce? Absolutely-- but he sells that common ground too hard, like there's a neediness behind it.
Aside that, though? Using one's heightened intellect and vigilante-gotten know how to hack into their precious phone without permission and delete files is... exactly the kind of line John would cross, also, so kudos on that?
For the moment, Tim's just a blur at the side of the frame anyway-- but he's got most of that deliciously venomous smack-talk recorded. Definitely gunna revisit and unpack that, later.
The mumbling aggressors pass off some token statements of snarled disinterest and shuffle out of their seats and away down the isle. A long semi-disappointed groan drawls out of the crass clown as he shuts off and pockets his phone; John gives the absconding goons a saucy little wave and loudly blows them a kiss as they retreat, for good measure. ]
Right? I was hoping for a chance bloody my knuckles on fresh bigot, buuuut... [ he gives Tim's shoulder a little squeeze before retrieving his hand and giving his new friend a hard appraising stare. His fingers curl around his own chin, strum along his jaw as he scans Tim through the frames of his 3D-glasses. He swaps back to signing on his next statement, because the staff clogged up by the doorway still look uncertain if they ought to confront the Joker-look-alike and his Not-Date on the noise. ]
You really, really don't look like you can take a punch. I'm good in a fight, don't worry. I would have protected you for sure!
[He'd watch them go with evident relief that they weren't about to cause more of a scene, and would let a breath go that he'd been holding locked in his chest. Tim worried about having hurt them too much in this situation, and John having done worse-- they were right to sense the vibes were off and to high-tail it with their tails between their legs, while they still could wag them. Getting your teeth knocked out by two 'fags' would not have been a good look for them; nor a good look for Tim either to have engaged in sea fighting, honestly. Maybe he wasn't as recognizable as the "Joker", but he was still Bruce Wayne's very public Adopted Son.
The relief compounds itself when he slides his eyes over to John and sees him sign that very, very incorrect statement. Awesome.
Under John's arm, if it's still around him, he'd feel those shoulders relax.]
I'm no good in a fight.
[He agreed.
And it wasn't a lie, because technically, he was great in a fight, and it would have been no good for those guys.
Finally, though, the younger man offers a smile.]
Actually, I think this movie is kinda blown for me. Might take my snack and head out.
[There was a diner nearby he liked the burnt coffee at and, truth be told, he thought John would mostly be left to his own devices after the unnerving display. The staff were clearly not about to call the GCPD or step in themselves, so he could probably be trusted to make it through the rest of whatever was going on in the plot. The drama of old Hollywood, in all its buttery tones.]
[ There's a fraction of a moment where it seems like John wants to follow. His shaded eyes dart between Tim and the screen and he hesitates, tenses like he might stand instead of sitting properly. But the moment passes and he instead twists the right way around in his seat, comfortably tossing his arms over the back of Tim's beside him (soon to be empty after all), and the shoulders of the stranger to his opposing side. They toss him a curious glance; the masked woman in the 'DO CRIMES' hoodie gives an excited little snicker, peeking sideways at the nonchalantly lounging clown. ]
Bye, Short King Tim [ he signs with breezy grace. ] Not a BAD first date. Three out of Five Stars. Better luck next time. [ His head tips sideways to make his playfully obnoxious wink obvious, even through his glasses. John balances perfectly on that line between sincerity and sarcasm; it would be easy to say he's being ridiculous, it's equally as easy to say his statement was actually adorably genuine-- as much as that would still be a skewed reading of the scene.
Acutely correcting him means further engaging him, though; taking the out means conceding the imaginary Mediocre Date review, which... should not be that hard to swallowbe that hard to take be too terrible a loss anyway? ]
[His eyes flutter in a brief confused expression which hazes his face-- almost cutely. Whether he's puzzled he's only been rated a 3/5, or if he's puzzled this was being considered a date, or if he was baffled this was a first date (implying the existence of other, future dates), who knew.
He takes a moment to consider the pale man before-- he simply jumps the seat, a little too fluid and deftly, grabs his packet of gummies, and does indeed head out. He thinks the guy will be fine now. Coffee awaits. If the goons that went to the lobby did too, well, he'd make quick work of them. And if something did go wrong? The diner was near enough to notice a commotion.
On his way out, he'd pause once at the door to the theatre to look back at the man shrouded by a green halo created by the screen... and, shaking his head, would walk out to dispose of the 3D glasses.
He wasn't so prideful as to be wounded by a mediocre review. But he was still a little annoyed he'd had to sacrifice his jacket. It was a nice jacket.]
[ That's not "almost cute" that's "pretty damn cute", Tim. Check your math already jeez. In truth John would have considered it a victory either way-- getting to chat Tim up further, or allowing his escape to concede the title of 'date' to their silly, oddly enjoyable encounter. Seems like you can have fun without high-key murder and mayhem? Who knew!
And in the strangest turn of events so far, John Doe actually sits and watches the rest of the film. It isn't a terrible experience, if a little dull without his new friend. Solo experience is supposed to be valuable, isn't it...? That's what Robin said to him. And yet, life just feels so much more colorful with a companion, a friend, a wing-man... It's these reflections that dance across John's funhouse mental-scape as he leaves the theater, and so happens to spot a smoke-stained-purple coat sitting sadly in the bin by the exit. No, no, no... that won't do at all.
---
It's a few days later, just shy of noon when John Doe comes strolling up the front walkway towards the grand entrance of Wayne Manor. Gate? He jumped it. Waited a whole three point five seconds, determined The Guy was on lunch, scaled the bars like an acrobat immune to pain and dropped himself on the other side, easy-peasy.
He's not exactly trying to sneak; he's whistling as he strolls, gives the security camera a friendly wave as he passes beneath it. Under his arm is a plain brown paper package, about the size of a large pizza box. The paper is covered in purple and green crayon scribbles-- smiley faces, sharp teeth, laughter in scratchy lettering, hearts, diamonds, aces and spades.
Tim... should probably find John's new coat somewhat familiar looking, too.
Because it's very much Tim's old coat, with a new spin. That smoke-bomb made startlingly pretty, purple ghostly patterns on the black leather; and John made up for the difference in size with some creative cutting. It fits more like a mini-vest on him, the bottom of the coat just brushing a few inches over his navel, the sleeves ripped off and left in stylish tatters to make room for his lithe yet longer arms. It looks like the man also found a bedazzler somewhere, because he's added a few flashy silver spikes and an ornamental buckle for good measure.
He trots up those lavish front steps and spends a moment gazing at the grandeur of the front door. Woooow.... rich people, man. With an amused snicker to himself he knocks musically, manically on the wood of the door, avoiding the ornamental stained glass. ]
[It's one of those days where the manor is even more quiet than usual. Damian is doing one of his rare stints at school, his soccer uniform tucked into the knapsack promising he'll be out until at least five pm, and Alfred is out running the day's errands. He likes to shop the produce himself when he has what he warmly calls 'growing boys' in the house, which is; by Tim's estimate; any male figure who happens to live there actually being home. Bruce was still very much Alfred's growing boy, in the old man's kindly, wise eyes. And as for Bruce? He was out sorting something to do with a charity Dick had asked him to look into; he did a lot of crossover work with Nightwing in Blüdhaven these days.
So did Tim, actually. It was just happenstance that he was home at all, much less the only one to be so. He was zoning places to move into that were close to Gotham's train station with a direct to Blüdhaven, so he could strike out on his own, be the Robin of two worlds that he wanted to be-- for Bruce, and for Dick, as-needed.
So it was just the sounds of his scratchy pen on paper, the tippy-tap of his laptop keys, the slow onerous thud of the grandfather clock... until, the knock at the door.
Well, no, that's not entirely accurate. Preceding it is a series of beeps, right into Tim's headphones. He's wearing headphones, but is so absorbed in his apartment search he hadn't realized his playlist had long since run dry until he heard the beeps. Security alert-- not the Batcave kind, the hopped the fence kind.
Maybe just a wild animal who got too close to a camera? Kid on a dare? Badly stupid robber?
Tim had pulled down his headphones to sit around his neck and would wander to the front door, letting his hand move out to ghost the gossamer of a curtain to just barely begin to peek, to spy on who might be coming up the walk... when that person... knocked.
John doesn't have to wait long. Tim, in a black turtleneck and red jeans, pulls the door open with a sideways expression, more curious than bothered, and raises a brow.]
Wayne Residen--...ce....
[And trails... right off... as he gets a load of who it is.
On their front step.
In... ...was that his jacket? 'Was' being really operative here, wow...
He blinks once, then twice. Well, there's no hiding now. If John's here, then he knows he's Timothy Jackson Drake... Wayne. And his face surely is fully visibly in the broad daylight dappling the expansive front grounds and now streaming in through the door to light him. He looks well-kept, in his lazy, malignant way; someone who'd grown up coddled just like Bruce, but also forgot to sleep or eat-- just like Bruce.]
[ It's probably a good thing for everyone involved that Tim is home; too much quiet after his knocking just might have inclined John to go poking around... and really, you don't have windows as big as doors and not expect someone to try and climb through them, once or twice.
But no window entrance is necessary, thankfully. Just the right person is here to answer the door.
(Imagine if it had been Jason. Bruce? Damian. Yeesh.)
That's okay Tim, take your time to process. John's just going to stand here beaming at you in the meantime. ]
It's John, John Doe-- you got it! WOW are you ever easy to track down, you know that? I bet you got a LOT of stalkers. Rich people.
Anyway-- you look BEAT. I hope this isn't a bad time? I have something for you!
[ That scribble-covered paper package gets shoved against Tim's chest-- but John doesn't actually let him take it. There's a sound, almost imperceptible, like the wind through the leaves but sharper, more pronounced...
The tall lanky man swivels around like a blood-hound rag-doll (taking his gift with him as he does), hateful hazel eyes glaring into the pretty ornamental brush dotted down the front lawn of the expansive estate. That rustling sound had almost been like footsteps... that click, almost like a camera.
Now, are paparazzi typically stupid enough to break onto the property of local famous folk? Of course-- but especially when some goofball climbs the bars first, proving that they are not in fact electrified (today). ]
I don't want to alarm you... but I THINK someone followed me...
[ The way he tucks his package protectively beneath his arm and cracks his knuckles paints a very clear picture of all the ass he is ready and willing to kick. Oh boy. ]
RUDE... I'm TRYING to do a nice thing, here! Who's messing with us?!
[ Tim... you might want to remind him why he's here-- and keep him away from anyone he can knock out along the way. ]
[His nose wrinkles and scrunches a little. John seems to have an impeccable talent for both complimenting and insulting him both at once.
'Liked you enough to stalk you!' combined with 'You sure look beat!' sure was... a helluva vocal combo.]
...I give that opening statement a 3 out of 5 stars.
[He decided, flatly, harkening back to the ranking of the date.
He'd reach up to take the package-- before it was marionetted away, almost like an exorcism happened to interrupt the gift-giving. Still, his eyes caught on the... uh, carefully decorated wrapping paper, which distracted him from the subtle teeth gnashing of a long-lens camera in the bushes by the perimeter.
But okay, okay. When the bloodhound that is John makes note there's someone else out there, Tim chances a look-- sees an unusual rustle that he doesn't like-- sizes it up as a pap probably trying to get a wad of freelance money-- and would have written it off before he realizes... remembers...
John looks like the Joker. The Joker, come to see Tim "Wayne".
Uh, NOPE. Why does this keep happening to him??
He'd reach out, apologize brusquely, and tug him in by his collar, slamming the door behind. He wasn't Dick Grayson, or heir apparent Damian Wayne. He did NOT need to be page six news tomorrow.]
...let me offer you a cup of tea. Al-- ...our butler is out right now, but boiling water isn't too beyond me. And you came all this way.
They'll get bored if we dont hang out by the window, I'm sure.
[ ah-haha, good call back. That actually catches John's attention, causes him to pause in his mounting fury and twist back to smirk almost proudly at Tim. That was a good one, respect, respect. He doesn't seem bothered at all by the hand on the collar of his shirt; he follows inside like he's been trained to walk on a leash. ]
Hey-- I was gunna--! [ What, beat the shit out of a less stalkery-stalker? Yup, hundred percent. This is probably the less explosive news article... even if the clever camera man happened to click, at just the right moment, to catch Tim's grip on John's collar. ]
Oh... tea? Sure! I mean uh-- thank you! Here, let me help in the kitchen. I can probably actually reach the cups, Shorty
[ He falls into step easily beside Tim, and bumps his shoulder (more roughly than he means to) against the shorter man's. ]
Here-- this is for you. Show me the kitchen, and open it up! --If you want to! N-no rush, obviously! You can wait for after tea, or, you know, later... whenever
[ Absolutely trashed that Rizz roll, he did. Oh well. Hopefully the coat will make up for it?
First off, John figured a fair trade for Tim's coat was one of his own; continently, a random assortment of his things had followed from The Other Gotham, because portals are unpredictable bitches on the best of days and bent reality in helpfully wonky ways. Among his things was were bits of is wardrobe and John had picked his red and black Guns and Roses jacket to offer as tribute. Had he picked out the snazzy garment originally to catch the eye of a certain blonde psycho with a hammer and a PHD? Yes absolutely.
But now he's going to use it for something better than wooing his ex-psychiatrist.
But much like Tim's old coat, John had taken his crafty fixation farther and made slap-dash but stylish alterations. First off, the optics on handing a Mini-Wayne a jacket with a gun decal on the back? Bad. So John had sliced the guns from the image, leaving instead the pair of bleeding roses on the back of the coat. The negative space from the gutted design has been stylishly slashed, creating the shape of a 'T' filled from behind with rich blood-in-the-dark-red.
The sleeves that would have been too long have been cut away and replaced with shorter versions from a smaller jacket sacrificed to the cause-- the stitching is haphazard but somehow stylish, red black and occasionally white threads binding the Frankensteined creation together. John even pried off the belt and adjusted where it sits on the coat, meaning it should look well fitted at roughly thigh length, as opposed to simply too big. The style he's created is certainly strange but has an odd unique charm. There probably isn't another coat like this in existence, at least?
John had finished his creation dying the body of the coat with the same smokey swirls that adorned his own garment, but in black; so instead of a sharp divide of black to red, it's black and blacker smoke with just whispers of red beneath along one side.
Don't mind John though. He's not terribly nervous at all. Where are those cups? ]
You could stop calling me short, you know, I'm aware of my vertical limitations, and since they idle at around the same height as an average female, I promise you I can reach most things in a house not designed for giant mantises.
[Which are a thing, by the way. Don't ask.
Now maybe he's saying Shorty as a proper noun and a play on words, which... damn, actually, that would be pretty clever, wouldn't it? As if catching onto the thread too late, having seam-ripped it out into the open a little, Tim glances over at John and reconsiders the nickname. It's not like it wounds his pride, exactly. He's used to looking up at people and having that not matter at all. Taller they are, harder they fall; and, as his newly admitted identity was teaching him, shorter you were, easier it is to get on your knees... for uh... fighting and probably other stuff, too.
But, nevermind. Tea.
Tim takes the package with a haphazard kind of grace, like he isn't really noticing or focused on it, but somehow the polar opposite of John at the movie theatre at his most fawnish; like John could have stuck out a foot to trip him while Tim took a slow blink and he would have just glided over the foot like second nature. He held the package like it was air, even idly turned it in his hands; quick, dagger-like, a little too impressive a twirl for something so bulky; this nerdy, sheltered looking kid having all the physicality of a ballerina, apparently.
Or a martial artist.
But he's leading the way to the kitchen, mind on dark leaves, and once there, he slides the package right onto the prep table and goes to fill the aluminium kettle with water. The kitchen is stunning, of course. A long, wooden farm-table for prepping; a marble island for more serious cookery; a stove with eight gas burners and two industrial ovens and even a fish grill. A wide double sink with copper fixings. And a circular table for sitting over a casual snack. The room was sunken, but it got good light form high, squat windows-- too high for photography, which is what Tim was counting on.]
The guest china is second cabinet, top right. Get to it, Lanky.
[ Oh, Tim has no problem reaching anything a woman can hm? Now it's John's turn to blink once, twice, while his processing stumbles to catch up. After a beat, a somewhat lurid grin splits across his mouth and he cannot resist the urge to wiggle his eyebrows in amiable-yet-feral mocking. Oh my. ]
Okay, well I certainly filed THAT information away for safe keeping...
[ And yes, he is eager for Tim to open his gift, okay? But he can play it cool, even as Tim demonstrates that little blip of impressive dexterity, flipping the mysterious gift in his hands. He follows behind, losing a few moments admiring the insane amount of opulence. ]
Please-- mocking someone's hieght is SO insensitive [ If not for the smirk that gives away his jest, it would be easy to believe John's hurt here is genuine; instead it's just an instantly conceeded joke, a small glimpse at what a fine actor John can be when he tries. A small, thoughtless scrap of trust. After a moment he breaks out in devilishly amused chuckles, wilting at the shoulders and rocking a few times, back and forth, before picking up his fumbled focus once again. ]
Guest China. Got it. Crazy [ He scrambles to follow the given directions, sliding over to the appropriate cabinet and rescuing-- no, kidnapping a pair of cups. The motion makes it easy to see that most of his fingers are stained black above the knuckles, and a couple are decorated with purple and green bandages. Honestly how does this guy color code everything? Must be some kind of OCD... ]
Here we go-- tea cups! Please don't let me embarrass myself grabbing the wrong spoons, I don't know anything about cutlery sciences.
[Tim smirks a little. He's a quick study, so he can just hear John's expression in his tone of voice now without having to turn to look, can feel the smirk spread like a second skin, as if it had created ripples on the air.
The kettle clanks and the stove ticks as it licks itself to life, flames dancing upwards and starting the kettle off on its merry way to a boil. Like a pretty piece of choreography he's performed a thousand times; and he's done it way less than that, because this kitchen and the black tea is truly Alfred's domain; he grabs up the gunmetal canister of luxuriant Ceylon Golden Tips and grabs a butter knife to angle the stuck lid off with. When it gives way, the smell of the leaves is papery, almost buttery and sweet; this isn't the bitter dreck of a Lipton's teabag, no sir, this is British Colonialism in all its first flush splendor.
(Tim, for the record, liked Lipton's. And preferred coffee anyway.)
Tim opens a small utensils drawer, takes out a sterling silver fine tea strainer and its little twin saucer, the type that sits across the length of a teacup and lets the drink breathe as it stews in the onsen waters below, and then he juts a hip out to bump the drawer closed again. Lastly, he grabs two little spoons, balancing it all with ease as he makes his way back to John for setup.
Strainers over cups, cups on saucers, strainer-saucer to side, tea spoon plucking out two scoops of black onto each strainer, then set to the side of the cup, lid back onto the pot of leaves.]
Do you take milk or sugar, lemon, honey, or black? Do you want biscuits, cake, crackers, scones, lemon bars, or chocolate? Or nothing?
[He looks up at him with such open-faced honesty that the absurdity of the situation almost felt glossed over by the sheer force of Hosting As Alfred Would Do.
Like he wasn't standing in Bruce's kitchen with a stalker who'd brought him a present, hiding from the Gotham Gazette, making blow job jokes over Alfred's Manchester tea set.]
[ John doesn't really like to wait... but, on the flip side, Tim taking his time with the gift means he gets more time with his new buddy. It's a decent trade off, minutes of company stolen over the formality of fancy tea. John can observe that prim Rich Guy Mannerism, probably passed down from Bruce, and it elicits a small serpentine smirk of understanding; in very different ways, they are both people raised far outside the norms of human society. They grew up in different shades of wonderland, but not in the real world itself. ]
Fancy business! Look at all the cute little pieces!
[ The question catches him off guard; John is... not used to being treated kindly for no reason beyond the kindness itself, okay. This is... kind of weird actually, but also nice? ]
Uhm, Leeet's do... milk and sugar, cake, lemon bars, and chocolate! Arkham's Caf can be so stingy with the sweets and caffeine, you know? Might as well splurge, if you're offering.
[ He props an elbow on the counter, and then his chin on his hand, allowing him to look upwards at Tim despite his towering height. He flutters his eyelashes with an impish little snicker, playing up the flirtatious expression to the point of playful mockery. ]
You know I'm not that hard to impress, right? Though I DO enjoy you spoiling me. Really, a guy could get used to this.
You're... only supposed to have one snack with the tea. [And, Tim notes from the previous information given on an errant rooftop to a boy in command-level tights; he wasn't even supposed to have the sugar content in all of one!]
Let's go... lemon bars, and one lump, or it'll be too sweet together. Unless you want two lumps and dark chocolate?
[He'd tarry to the fridge, and that clutch of anxiety would creep on him as his fingers extended for the handle of it--
From commanding presence telling John what they'd do instead to wilting wallflower in the span of three strides. He contained multitudes.]
Oh... sorry. I didn't ask if you can do dairy or lactose. Do you want regular milk, cream, skim, almond, oat, macadamia, uh-- [Pulling the fridge open, poking around--] --sesame, pistachio, soy... coconut, flax... hemp... rice milk.... microbe milk?
[His eyes glaze on past some horrible concoction Damian has stored away for later in Tupperware he wishes were less see-through. He swears the hellion would try to eat nothing but grass and vitriol if Bruce let him.
A glance over a shoulder at John, and a brow raise.]
I'm just trying to be a good host. Truth be told, it's a little weird you looked me up and came all this way. But I guess if you got a good look at me, I'm not hard to find. The extended Wayne family of adoptees is kind of hounded by the press here in Gotham. Probably it's more likely that you would have accidentally found out you met Tim Drake-Wayne at the movies over the morning news; or, would be more likely, if it wasn't totally obvious that you have the distinctive personality of someone who memorized my face, looked me up, doggedly figured out who I was the hard way, and then came bearing what is probably a very personalized gift in order to thank me for the other night as a pretext for talking more.
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Nope, no, no way. He's not having this conversation. He's not thinking about this. Queer or not, there are some lines in the sand, and a line in the sand absolutely has to be the mentally unwell pantomime of the guy who'd gut most of yours family without blinking.
He's flattered, but disturbed, and the effect makes him jumpy. Perhaps John might see a little of himself in the vague twitches, the mental calculations, the almost panic at the roundabout compliment.
He doesn't quite know how to swallow it, so he focuses back at the movie, which reaches back out to him in 3D and makes him jump a little in his chair.
...only one point two hours left to go...]
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Someone before Bruce Wayne, maybe.
John very much catches the mirror of his own typical vibe and it's probably the worst possible reaction, because it endears him all the more. Bruce is strong and smart and handsome but he doesn't do Cute very well. Tim, opposing John, wears his awkward uncertainty in an unintentionally flattering manner.
His sharp shoulders slant sideways and this time the invasion of Tim's space is measured, and not Way Too Much, way too fast. Instead it's just as much as he thinks he can get away with... so he can reach into that bag of surrendered gummy bears, and thief a few of them back.
He executes the candy ursine in the very same way Tim had, demonstrating his devilishly detail-orientated ability to exactly mimic behaviors.
He signs 'thank you' with a little extra teasing finesse; his smirk is slightly sated sadism, clearly he is enjoying flustering his new friend. ]
Not afraid of The Joker unless he flirts with you? That's... no that's actually completely fair
[ He finishes that trail of thought nodding empathetically-- but still smirking like an imp. ]
I'm sorry. No biting, Scout's Honor. [ He holds his hand up straight and shows Tim his palm, as though preforming the swear; the especially smooth and pale skin of his scar through the center of his hand catches the silver light of the screen as he does. ]
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Dick Grayson? Catnip on a platter, and if no one else ate him right up, he was fine touting his own sexiness across town like he owned it-- something so ephemeral, so difficult to have mastery of, body confidence.
Jason Todd is where things drop off a little, but Tim had been raised shoulder to shoulder with Ariana and Steph, who'd tried to seduce him outright and he'd begged off it. That maybe should have been his first clue about his sexuality. Hot girl on a bed offering herself up willingly and enthusiastically, and you say let's wait? Hmm.
Then there were... less savory moments. Stolen kisses that left him baffled, or the time he was strung up in Ras' weird cavern with the man's sister proudly proclaiming her intention to assault him before Cass saved his ass... literally.
Tim isn't aware he's good looking, if he is. Conventionally, he probably is. He's slim, but built, with enough muscle to make every angle and curve perfection, but not so built as to announce itself under clothing. He has the trademark "Wayne" jet hair and deep, soulful blue eyes. The fact that women throw themselves at him should be a clue. He's strong, but it comes in size "small"-- tall by Starbucks logic only. Handsome and modest is hard to come by in super circles, but he fits the bill. (No Drake pun intended.)
But when men even nudge in his direction, much less make themselves obvious? Something in his stomach does a little dance, and something balls up in his throat, and he gets pink, and over-warm, and wants to laugh. Like, an unsettled laugh. Like, he can't help it.
But he manages to. He tucks hair awkwardly behind and ear and tries not to watch John eat a gummie in homage to the way he had, tries not to hyper-focus on the word 'flit' or 'bite', and tries not... to stare at that scar.
In the end seat, he really does feel like a caged bird.]
Guys don't usually hit on me.
[That he notices, anyway. There is this one blond, though...]
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It isn't as though none of his attraction is physical, either; aside those charming blue eyes, Batman towers over John without actually being any taller than him, and the same can be said of Harley Quin. Even Robin has more grandeur about him, a certain admirable theatrical flare, but Tim? ]
No Shorty, you don't N-O-T-I-C-E guys hitting on you.
[ He corrects Tim with a Cheshire smile; maybe John can recognize that antsy almost anxious energy-- after all, he laughs when he's nervous, too. That's the truth.
He catches Tim trying not to stare at the slice through his moon-pale palm, and his head tips like an observant but docile predatory thing. ]
Curious? [ He pauses his signing to offer Tim a better look at his scar. Yup, that was %100 from crucifixion via batarang. Beneath the sleeve drawn up to elbow are the softest whispers of surgery scars, remnants of the operations required to set pins and bars into his twice shattered arm. ]
From my Ex. Sexy Bastard.
[... okay he's out of line but he's not exactly wrong. ]
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So whereas he usually might have shied away from discussing someone's bodily injury-- it's rude to stare, and scars are plentiful in his line of work, he finds them beautiful in some cases, tragic in others, and poetry in almost all-- he lets the tide of the conversation be dragged away by this new thread of conversation.
(...fuck this movie, he supposes. He's lost the plot entirely by now.)]
Didn't mean to stare.
[Maybe he hadn't had to give that away; surely John didn't know where he was looking, behind those glasses? But honesty is a fault line of Tim's.
And then John says 'my Ex', and Tim knows who that means, and groans aloud. A thin, deep sound that rumbles just under the soundtrack of the film.
It's from Bruce. And if it's from Bruce-- well, he knows a batarang wound when he sees one.]
You really do like the wrong guys.
[The most non-committal response he can give.]
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The movie is incidentally far less interesting than the company. Tim's gaze wasn't exactly obvious-- the sharp witted fellow flashed his palm on purpose, meant to draw Tim's attention there, waited until he caught that flickered gaze of smothered attention. He makes a dismissive yet friendly gesture to Tim's initial implied apology; he isn't offended, he's happier for conversation and company than to be left alone with his own (and His own) thoughts.
That exasperated groan, just barely loud enough to turn a few heads, spawns a badly smothered storm of chuckles twice as loud. Tim's grievance here doesn't exactly have to be personal; any person could react along the same line seeing such scars left from "an Ex".
Still... The man with the haunting hazel eyes seems quite satisfied to have earned that particular shade of disapproval from his brand new friend of which he knows nothing about. He doesn't even seem to notice the irritated stares as his amused chuckles slowly simmer down. His teasing expression almost has a sense of 'made you blink', or something very like it. ]
When you're right, you're right. Horrible, horrible taste in men!
[ Then his charm skips like a scratched CD, his eyes go owlish-wide and he blinks a few times as he realizes exactly how he's just insulted Tim. If this was someone like Harley, even someone like Bruce, John might flinch away for fear of the offence he might have caused. Instead, he clamps a hand across his mouth to smother another stream of laughter that is... not quite malicious, not unfriendly, and certainly a little bit nervous. ]
Sorry! [ He manages to sign with his free hand, shoulders trembling as he represses most of his exuberant reaction. ] I said you seem nice! N-I-C-E
[ Fantastic save, really. So smooth. ]
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Oh.
Horrible taste in men. Flirting with him. Got it.
He wasn't super insulted, for two reasons.
Reason A:
Very distracted. The audience is glaring daggers at them for the bubbling giggles frothing up from their corner during a scene that is Decidedly Not Funny. Forget cell phones or loud chatting-- this is jarring, dislocating, worse. Tim wishes he could apologize on John's behalf, but he both knows that would make the crowd madder and thinks it would make John laugh harder.
Reason B:
He wasn't wrong. Flirting with Batman's sidekick, with a face like his? Horrible, horrible taste in men. Flirting with Bruce Wayne's son? Horrible, horrible taste in men. Flirting with someone who'd stalked you to a theatre to make sure you didn't harm yourself or others and was now spoiling the film by conducting the world's strangest signing conversation? Horrible, horrible taste in men.
Tim shakes his head.]
It's okay. I doubt I'm actually your type. No harm, no foul.
I'm not very social, so we probably will split after the film. But in the meantime, I promise...
[A gesture at his scar.]
I don't bite, either.
[Not as Tim, anyway.]
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[ And then he picks up his charming demeanor like he never dropped it in the first place; truly, this man is chaos. Fractured personalities do be like that sometimes. Despite the fact that he's being a lowkey menace to the general public (or maybe, along with that) John is... actually having a decent time? And no one is dying? There are no bombs? Nothing is on fire? It's a serious victory whether Tim knows it or not.
Flirting-slash-poking-fun at a cute guy at the movies is so... mundane. John could use a few more mundane activities in his day to day. ]
Antisocial, and bites on command? Stop, I'm getting light-headed... [ He's laying it on extra thick now, fanning his fingers across his chest and "swooning" in his chair. He's teasing Tim now, a few stray notes of friendliness undercutting the seriousness of his flirt; he's being mischievous, not malicious. Almost, almost playful, in the way that wild, fanged things can be.
And then some jackass behind him kicks the back of John's chair, hard enough to knock him out of his 'fainted rag doll' posture and forward into the seat in front of him. Apparently in the theater's darkness, it was easy enough to miss the potentially fatal green hair, white skin, and clown-style points of John's appearance, but damn if this guy's homophobia didn't function in the dark. ]
Fags [ the random neck-beard dude snarls in the distain of the incredibly idiotic. Now, could John knock out this guy's teeth? Absolutely. But he is trying to behave himself, and this is not a date BUT if it was, he would be on his best behavior, especially. So instead of immediate extreme violence, he twists up into his seat proper, grabs his drink from the cup holder, and pours the liquid-ice-and-candy-syrup-mess right over Mr. Social Critic's lap.
His arm just so happens to settle around the back of Tim's chair on the way back down. He isn't looking sideways though, his chin is tipped all the way up, sending his acidic glare backwards to the trio of aggressors getting puffed up over that spilled drink.
Seeing John's (upside-down) face directly, the Bros Three look uncertain if they want to invite him outside over the strife; for the moment, it's a silent stalemate while they each weigh their wounded pride against their common sense. ]
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Maybe it was an errant insult. A throwaway. Surely the dullards didn't know signing; surely they couldn't see the makeup on one man, the sweet face of the other, or the slight build of both. Maybe it was like a candy wrapper tossed on the sidewalk finding the wind. Or maybe, it was because of the high-pitched nature of the laughter emanating from John.
Tim didn't care.
He was a beat behind John, because he spared the time to put his candy aside (didn't want to cause the cleanup crew any grief) and whip off his glasses. And if his hood fell somewhere in between untangling them from his face and the rapid turn he made to backwards to look at them, well, he just didn't care in this moment.
No, this was personal. Personal to Tim Drake. And Tim Drake didn't have to play by Robin's rules.
He'd sit up on his knees in the chair, hugging to the back, not noticing or minding the placement of John's arm. Suddenly, they were a team. United by that single blistering word. And Tim's face, now fully visible (if backlit), would be a flatline of an expression as the three gruffs decided if they wanted to tango on that note or not.]
That's right, I'm a fag, and this fag could kick your butt from Tricorner to the Bowery, so you wanna dance? Not really my type, for the record; I usually don't go for narrow-minded and thick-skulled, I kinda prefer open-minded and thicc-comma-periodt. So. Your play, chucklefucks.
[It was more aggressive than he usually got. But he was seated next to the man who looked like the Joker, and he slid into the old moniker of 'side kick' well enough. He'd heard Harley talk smack before, loads of times.
And besides. When it came to Pride? He'd call it like he saw it: you were tolerant, or you were the biggest chuckle of the fucks.
Jason loved that word. He wouldn't mind sharing, Tim was sure.]
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He is not in fact streaming the encounter-- this is for John's personal collection. But the Homophobes Three get extra ape-ish at the notion of some imagined audience judging the size of their dicks. ]
Short King Tim versus, The Chuckle Fucks Three! Who will prevail? Showdown at Fuck Around and Find Out O'clock!
[ Ala his Cheshire cat vibe John remains upside-down for a few beats as he records and plays announcer at once; he keeps his eyes locked on the ruffled aggressors as he twists to face them directly, his motions eerily boneless and too smooth, like a contortionist trained for horror films.
Regretfully this does have John taking back his arm for a moment. Purely for theatrical effect, and to drive their joint defiance, he drapes one lengthy silk-sleeved arm around Tim's shoulders proper, instead. His fingers coil one by one, each locking deliberately around the deceptively smaller stature of Tim's shoulder. ]
Any takers? Givers? Pitchers? Catchers? Entertain us, I double dare you
[... aaaand now the extremely stressed theater staff are shuffling in with flash lights, trying to disappear into the bad carpet before they actually have to approach this hot mess of a conflict. ]
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He doesn’t mind the arm around his shoulders, in this instance. It lends a nice weight and tethers them together as teammates and unlikely victors. Small, skinny frames; but John had an unnerving quality and Tim had an unyielding one and both seemed to glitter with the urge to dare this group into action with the confidence of predators whose teeth joyfully await first blood.
The patrons, by Tim’s reckoning, were showing signs of backing off; discussing an exit strategy that involved a bathroom stop to wash the sticky slush out.]
Must hate us because they’re no good at pitching or catching. [Muttered to John, under his breath.] Real bench warmers, these guys.
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Aside that, though? Using one's heightened intellect and vigilante-gotten know how to hack into their precious phone without permission and delete files is... exactly the kind of line John would cross, also, so kudos on that?
For the moment, Tim's just a blur at the side of the frame anyway-- but he's got most of that deliciously venomous smack-talk recorded. Definitely gunna revisit and unpack that, later.
The mumbling aggressors pass off some token statements of snarled disinterest and shuffle out of their seats and away down the isle. A long semi-disappointed groan drawls out of the crass clown as he shuts off and pockets his phone; John gives the absconding goons a saucy little wave and loudly blows them a kiss as they retreat, for good measure. ]
Right? I was hoping for a chance bloody my knuckles on fresh bigot, buuuut... [ he gives Tim's shoulder a little squeeze before retrieving his hand and giving his new friend a hard appraising stare. His fingers curl around his own chin, strum along his jaw as he scans Tim through the frames of his 3D-glasses. He swaps back to signing on his next statement, because the staff clogged up by the doorway still look uncertain if they ought to confront the Joker-look-alike and his Not-Date on the noise. ]
You really, really don't look like you can take a punch. I'm good in a fight, don't worry. I would have protected you for sure!
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The relief compounds itself when he slides his eyes over to John and sees him sign that very, very incorrect statement. Awesome.
Under John's arm, if it's still around him, he'd feel those shoulders relax.]
I'm no good in a fight.
[He agreed.
And it wasn't a lie, because technically, he was great in a fight, and it would have been no good for those guys.
Finally, though, the younger man offers a smile.]
Actually, I think this movie is kinda blown for me. Might take my snack and head out.
[There was a diner nearby he liked the burnt coffee at and, truth be told, he thought John would mostly be left to his own devices after the unnerving display. The staff were clearly not about to call the GCPD or step in themselves, so he could probably be trusted to make it through the rest of whatever was going on in the plot. The drama of old Hollywood, in all its buttery tones.]
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Bye, Short King Tim [ he signs with breezy grace. ] Not a BAD first date. Three out of Five Stars. Better luck next time. [ His head tips sideways to make his playfully obnoxious wink obvious, even through his glasses. John balances perfectly on that line between sincerity and sarcasm; it would be easy to say he's being ridiculous, it's equally as easy to say his statement was actually adorably genuine-- as much as that would still be a skewed reading of the scene.
Acutely correcting him means further engaging him, though; taking the out means conceding the imaginary Mediocre Date review, which... should not
be that hard to swallowbe that hard to takebe too terrible a loss anyway? ]no subject
He takes a moment to consider the pale man before-- he simply jumps the seat, a little too fluid and deftly, grabs his packet of gummies, and does indeed head out. He thinks the guy will be fine now. Coffee awaits. If the goons that went to the lobby did too, well, he'd make quick work of them. And if something did go wrong? The diner was near enough to notice a commotion.
On his way out, he'd pause once at the door to the theatre to look back at the man shrouded by a green halo created by the screen... and, shaking his head, would walk out to dispose of the 3D glasses.
He wasn't so prideful as to be wounded by a mediocre review. But he was still a little annoyed he'd had to sacrifice his jacket. It was a nice jacket.]
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And in the strangest turn of events so far, John Doe actually sits and watches the rest of the film. It isn't a terrible experience, if a little dull without his new friend. Solo experience is supposed to be valuable, isn't it...? That's what Robin said to him. And yet, life just feels so much more colorful with a companion, a friend, a wing-man... It's these reflections that dance across John's funhouse mental-scape as he leaves the theater, and so happens to spot a smoke-stained-purple coat sitting sadly in the bin by the exit. No, no, no... that won't do at all.
---
It's a few days later, just shy of noon when John Doe comes strolling up the front walkway towards the grand entrance of Wayne Manor. Gate? He jumped it. Waited a whole three point five seconds, determined The Guy was on lunch, scaled the bars like an acrobat immune to pain and dropped himself on the other side, easy-peasy.
He's not exactly trying to sneak; he's whistling as he strolls, gives the security camera a friendly wave as he passes beneath it. Under his arm is a plain brown paper package, about the size of a large pizza box. The paper is covered in purple and green crayon scribbles-- smiley faces, sharp teeth, laughter in scratchy lettering, hearts, diamonds, aces and spades.
Tim... should probably find John's new coat somewhat familiar looking, too.
Because it's very much Tim's old coat, with a new spin. That smoke-bomb made startlingly pretty, purple ghostly patterns on the black leather; and John made up for the difference in size with some creative cutting. It fits more like a mini-vest on him, the bottom of the coat just brushing a few inches over his navel, the sleeves ripped off and left in stylish tatters to make room for his lithe yet longer arms. It looks like the man also found a bedazzler somewhere, because he's added a few flashy silver spikes and an ornamental buckle for good measure.
He trots up those lavish front steps and spends a moment gazing at the grandeur of the front door. Woooow.... rich people, man. With an amused snicker to himself he knocks musically, manically on the wood of the door, avoiding the ornamental stained glass. ]
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So did Tim, actually. It was just happenstance that he was home at all, much less the only one to be so. He was zoning places to move into that were close to Gotham's train station with a direct to Blüdhaven, so he could strike out on his own, be the Robin of two worlds that he wanted to be-- for Bruce, and for Dick, as-needed.
So it was just the sounds of his scratchy pen on paper, the tippy-tap of his laptop keys, the slow onerous thud of the grandfather clock... until, the knock at the door.
Well, no, that's not entirely accurate. Preceding it is a series of beeps, right into Tim's headphones. He's wearing headphones, but is so absorbed in his apartment search he hadn't realized his playlist had long since run dry until he heard the beeps. Security alert-- not the Batcave kind, the hopped the fence kind.
Maybe just a wild animal who got too close to a camera? Kid on a dare? Badly stupid robber?
Tim had pulled down his headphones to sit around his neck and would wander to the front door, letting his hand move out to ghost the gossamer of a curtain to just barely begin to peek, to spy on who might be coming up the walk... when that person... knocked.
John doesn't have to wait long. Tim, in a black turtleneck and red jeans, pulls the door open with a sideways expression, more curious than bothered, and raises a brow.]
Wayne Residen--...ce....
[And trails... right off... as he gets a load of who it is.
On their front step.
In... ...was that his jacket? 'Was' being really operative here, wow...
He blinks once, then twice. Well, there's no hiding now. If John's here, then he knows he's Timothy Jackson Drake... Wayne. And his face surely is fully visibly in the broad daylight dappling the expansive front grounds and now streaming in through the door to light him. He looks well-kept, in his lazy, malignant way; someone who'd grown up coddled just like Bruce, but also forgot to sleep or eat-- just like Bruce.]
Movie theatre guy. Right?
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But no window entrance is necessary, thankfully. Just the right person is here to answer the door.
(Imagine if it had been Jason. Bruce? Damian. Yeesh.)
That's okay Tim, take your time to process. John's just going to stand here beaming at you in the meantime. ]
It's John, John Doe-- you got it! WOW are you ever easy to track down, you know that? I bet you got a LOT of stalkers. Rich people.
Anyway-- you look BEAT. I hope this isn't a bad time? I have something for you!
[ That scribble-covered paper package gets shoved against Tim's chest-- but John doesn't actually let him take it. There's a sound, almost imperceptible, like the wind through the leaves but sharper, more pronounced...
The tall lanky man swivels around like a blood-hound rag-doll (taking his gift with him as he does), hateful hazel eyes glaring into the pretty ornamental brush dotted down the front lawn of the expansive estate. That rustling sound had almost been like footsteps... that click, almost like a camera.
Now, are paparazzi typically stupid enough to break onto the property of local famous folk? Of course-- but especially when some goofball climbs the bars first, proving that they are not in fact electrified (today). ]
I don't want to alarm you... but I THINK someone followed me...
[ The way he tucks his package protectively beneath his arm and cracks his knuckles paints a very clear picture of all the ass he is ready and willing to kick. Oh boy. ]
RUDE... I'm TRYING to do a nice thing, here! Who's messing with us?!
[ Tim... you might want to remind him why he's here-- and keep him away from anyone he can knock out along the way. ]
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[His nose wrinkles and scrunches a little. John seems to have an impeccable talent for both complimenting and insulting him both at once.
'Liked you enough to stalk you!' combined with 'You sure look beat!' sure was... a helluva vocal combo.]
...I give that opening statement a 3 out of 5 stars.
[He decided, flatly, harkening back to the ranking of the date.
He'd reach up to take the package-- before it was marionetted away, almost like an exorcism happened to interrupt the gift-giving. Still, his eyes caught on the... uh, carefully decorated wrapping paper, which distracted him from the subtle teeth gnashing of a long-lens camera in the bushes by the perimeter.
But okay, okay. When the bloodhound that is John makes note there's someone else out there, Tim chances a look-- sees an unusual rustle that he doesn't like-- sizes it up as a pap probably trying to get a wad of freelance money-- and would have written it off before he realizes... remembers...
John looks like the Joker. The Joker, come to see Tim "Wayne".
Uh, NOPE. Why does this keep happening to him??
He'd reach out, apologize brusquely, and tug him in by his collar, slamming the door behind. He wasn't Dick Grayson, or heir apparent Damian Wayne. He did NOT need to be page six news tomorrow.]
...let me offer you a cup of tea. Al-- ...our butler is out right now, but boiling water isn't too beyond me. And you came all this way.
They'll get bored if we dont hang out by the window, I'm sure.
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Hey-- I was gunna--! [ What, beat the shit out of a less stalkery-stalker? Yup, hundred percent. This is probably the less explosive news article... even if the clever camera man happened to click, at just the right moment, to catch Tim's grip on John's collar. ]
Oh... tea? Sure! I mean uh-- thank you! Here, let me help in the kitchen. I can probably actually reach the cups, Shorty
[ He falls into step easily beside Tim, and bumps his shoulder (more roughly than he means to) against the shorter man's. ]
Here-- this is for you. Show me the kitchen, and open it up! --If you want to! N-no rush, obviously! You can wait for after tea, or, you know, later... whenever
[ Absolutely trashed that Rizz roll, he did. Oh well. Hopefully the coat will make up for it?
First off, John figured a fair trade for Tim's coat was one of his own; continently, a random assortment of his things had followed from The Other Gotham, because portals are unpredictable bitches on the best of days and bent reality in helpfully wonky ways. Among his things was were bits of is wardrobe and John had picked his red and black Guns and Roses jacket to offer as tribute. Had he picked out the snazzy garment originally to catch the eye of a certain blonde psycho with a hammer and a PHD? Yes absolutely.
But now he's going to use it for something better than wooing his ex-psychiatrist.
But much like Tim's old coat, John had taken his crafty fixation farther and made slap-dash but stylish alterations. First off, the optics on handing a Mini-Wayne a jacket with a gun decal on the back? Bad. So John had sliced the guns from the image, leaving instead the pair of bleeding roses on the back of the coat. The negative space from the gutted design has been stylishly slashed, creating the shape of a 'T' filled from behind with rich blood-in-the-dark-red.
The sleeves that would have been too long have been cut away and replaced with shorter versions from a smaller jacket sacrificed to the cause-- the stitching is haphazard but somehow stylish, red black and occasionally white threads binding the Frankensteined creation together. John even pried off the belt and adjusted where it sits on the coat, meaning it should look well fitted at roughly thigh length, as opposed to simply too big. The style he's created is certainly strange but has an odd unique charm. There probably isn't another coat like this in existence, at least?
John had finished his creation dying the body of the coat with the same smokey swirls that adorned his own garment, but in black; so instead of a sharp divide of black to red, it's black and blacker smoke with just whispers of red beneath along one side.
Don't mind John though. He's not terribly nervous at all. Where are those cups? ]
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[Which are a thing, by the way. Don't ask.
Now maybe he's saying Shorty as a proper noun and a play on words, which... damn, actually, that would be pretty clever, wouldn't it? As if catching onto the thread too late, having seam-ripped it out into the open a little, Tim glances over at John and reconsiders the nickname. It's not like it wounds his pride, exactly. He's used to looking up at people and having that not matter at all. Taller they are, harder they fall; and, as his newly admitted identity was teaching him, shorter you were, easier it is to get on your knees... for uh... fighting and probably other stuff, too.
But, nevermind. Tea.
Tim takes the package with a haphazard kind of grace, like he isn't really noticing or focused on it, but somehow the polar opposite of John at the movie theatre at his most fawnish; like John could have stuck out a foot to trip him while Tim took a slow blink and he would have just glided over the foot like second nature. He held the package like it was air, even idly turned it in his hands; quick, dagger-like, a little too impressive a twirl for something so bulky; this nerdy, sheltered looking kid having all the physicality of a ballerina, apparently.
Or a martial artist.
But he's leading the way to the kitchen, mind on dark leaves, and once there, he slides the package right onto the prep table and goes to fill the aluminium kettle with water. The kitchen is stunning, of course. A long, wooden farm-table for prepping; a marble island for more serious cookery; a stove with eight gas burners and two industrial ovens and even a fish grill. A wide double sink with copper fixings. And a circular table for sitting over a casual snack. The room was sunken, but it got good light form high, squat windows-- too high for photography, which is what Tim was counting on.]
The guest china is second cabinet, top right. Get to it, Lanky.
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Okay, well I certainly filed THAT information away for safe keeping...
[ And yes, he is eager for Tim to open his gift, okay? But he can play it cool, even as Tim demonstrates that little blip of impressive dexterity, flipping the mysterious gift in his hands. He follows behind, losing a few moments admiring the insane amount of opulence. ]
Please-- mocking someone's hieght is SO insensitive [ If not for the smirk that gives away his jest, it would be easy to believe John's hurt here is genuine; instead it's just an instantly conceeded joke, a small glimpse at what a fine actor John can be when he tries. A small, thoughtless scrap of trust. After a moment he breaks out in devilishly amused chuckles, wilting at the shoulders and rocking a few times, back and forth, before picking up his fumbled focus once again. ]
Guest China. Got it. Crazy [ He scrambles to follow the given directions, sliding over to the appropriate cabinet and rescuing-- no, kidnapping a pair of cups. The motion makes it easy to see that most of his fingers are stained black above the knuckles, and a couple are decorated with purple and green bandages. Honestly how does this guy color code everything? Must be some kind of OCD... ]
Here we go-- tea cups! Please don't let me embarrass myself grabbing the wrong spoons, I don't know anything about cutlery sciences.
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The kettle clanks and the stove ticks as it licks itself to life, flames dancing upwards and starting the kettle off on its merry way to a boil. Like a pretty piece of choreography he's performed a thousand times; and he's done it way less than that, because this kitchen and the black tea is truly Alfred's domain; he grabs up the gunmetal canister of luxuriant Ceylon Golden Tips and grabs a butter knife to angle the stuck lid off with. When it gives way, the smell of the leaves is papery, almost buttery and sweet; this isn't the bitter dreck of a Lipton's teabag, no sir, this is British Colonialism in all its first flush splendor.
(Tim, for the record, liked Lipton's. And preferred coffee anyway.)
Tim opens a small utensils drawer, takes out a sterling silver fine tea strainer and its little twin saucer, the type that sits across the length of a teacup and lets the drink breathe as it stews in the onsen waters below, and then he juts a hip out to bump the drawer closed again. Lastly, he grabs two little spoons, balancing it all with ease as he makes his way back to John for setup.
Strainers over cups, cups on saucers, strainer-saucer to side, tea spoon plucking out two scoops of black onto each strainer, then set to the side of the cup, lid back onto the pot of leaves.]
Do you take milk or sugar, lemon, honey, or black? Do you want biscuits, cake, crackers, scones, lemon bars, or chocolate? Or nothing?
[He looks up at him with such open-faced honesty that the absurdity of the situation almost felt glossed over by the sheer force of Hosting As Alfred Would Do.
Like he wasn't standing in Bruce's kitchen with a stalker who'd brought him a present, hiding from the Gotham Gazette, making blow job jokes over Alfred's Manchester tea set.]
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Fancy business! Look at all the cute little pieces!
[ The question catches him off guard; John is... not used to being treated kindly for no reason beyond the kindness itself, okay. This is... kind of weird actually, but also nice? ]
Uhm, Leeet's do... milk and sugar, cake, lemon bars, and chocolate! Arkham's Caf can be so stingy with the sweets and caffeine, you know? Might as well splurge, if you're offering.
[ He props an elbow on the counter, and then his chin on his hand, allowing him to look upwards at Tim despite his towering height. He flutters his eyelashes with an impish little snicker, playing up the flirtatious expression to the point of playful mockery. ]
You know I'm not that hard to impress, right? Though I DO enjoy you spoiling me. Really, a guy could get used to this.
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Let's go... lemon bars, and one lump, or it'll be too sweet together. Unless you want two lumps and dark chocolate?
[He'd tarry to the fridge, and that clutch of anxiety would creep on him as his fingers extended for the handle of it--
From commanding presence telling John what they'd do instead to wilting wallflower in the span of three strides. He contained multitudes.]
Oh... sorry. I didn't ask if you can do dairy or lactose. Do you want regular milk, cream, skim, almond, oat, macadamia, uh-- [Pulling the fridge open, poking around--] --sesame, pistachio, soy... coconut, flax... hemp... rice milk.... microbe milk?
[His eyes glaze on past some horrible concoction Damian has stored away for later in Tupperware he wishes were less see-through. He swears the hellion would try to eat nothing but grass and vitriol if Bruce let him.
A glance over a shoulder at John, and a brow raise.]
I'm just trying to be a good host. Truth be told, it's a little weird you looked me up and came all this way. But I guess if you got a good look at me, I'm not hard to find. The extended Wayne family of adoptees is kind of hounded by the press here in Gotham. Probably it's more likely that you would have accidentally found out you met Tim Drake-Wayne at the movies over the morning news; or, would be more likely, if it wasn't totally obvious that you have the distinctive personality of someone who memorized my face, looked me up, doggedly figured out who I was the hard way, and then came bearing what is probably a very personalized gift in order to thank me for the other night as a pretext for talking more.
[Oops, you got wonder boy talking. RIP.]
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