[ 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.
Oh, really? I didn't know there was rules about that kind of thing...
[ All the uncertainty and awkwardness in this creature belongs to John, and it's his side of the coin flipped up while he artlessly paws the back of his own neck, looking genuinely embarrassed over his lapse in "common" knowledge. It's a bit wonky, existing as a socially awkward, isolated weirdo and a genius, all at once. Surely no one else could relate. ]
Uhh... you know what? I'll just defer to your superior Tea Party Know How. Clearly I did NOT do enough homework before dropping by. I'm probably the least researched stalker to ever hop that fence.
[ He waggles his finger and shakes his head, 'tsk tsk tsking' in mock disappointment at his own ill-preparedness. Honestly John, way to look like an uneducated idiot. Tim doesn't seem to mind though-- he just goes on with his charming hosting behavior, endearing the unstable man all the more. ]
Wow, do you have every kind of milk known to man in that fridge? Let's just do cream, it's way too early to get into the kinkier stuff.
[ He waves his hand at the wrist, friendly-dismissive and blatantly flamboyant.]
And it's not weird [ It's totally weird. ] I wrecked your coat-- accidentally, but still. Then I took it. [ He stands back from the counter, rears to his full height and spreads his arms with the showmanship of a ring master, drawing attention to his adopted attire. ] I thought I should... re-balance that equation a little
[ He listens to Tim spiral deductions with a keen little smirk; yup, his brain does that too, vroom-vroom go the sparking neurons. ]
I just so happened to catch your face in an old newspaper I was reading. From there? The address isn't actually to hard to find. The thing about poor people, Rich Boy, is that we do personalized gifts because we can't afford expensive ones. Sorry if that's awkward for you.
[ He's prickling Tim but not maliciously; his knife-edged grin isn't pointed straight for the jugular. The fact that John is playfully deflecting means Tim did hit the nail on the head, the approval brightening the green in John's eyes is more than enough proof of that. ]
[Tim ignores the not-so-subtle flirting; he had a hard head for it to begin with, but his filter had been strengthened by years around Conner; and goes about the business of tea. Pours when the kettle is blaring, times it to five minutes. Lemon bar to the non-spoon side of the saucer. Shaving of dark chocolate, a little messy. Napkins, right, right. Laying those down. Taking the steeping leaves off, putting them in their dish. Set out the lumps of sugar; put the cream on the table in its carton.
He didn't put it into the milk... pourer... thinggie, because even he had limits. (Sorry, Alfred.)
Having a seat by the gift, and keeping his tea black, he'd finally look up again at John-- having taken less than no offense.]
So you admit you're a stalker? That's nice, most people aren't as self-actualized as all that. [A soft smile to show he was joking, before bringing the tea up into his hands to warm them.] ...so you made me something to make up for my jacket?
[Which now looked fairly bedazzled on the Joker himself, he realized as he gave him a slow once-over. Huh. Well, the purple patterning did work for him.]
...that's nice of you. You didn't have to go out of your way.
[ Razor-edged curiosity leads John to observe every detail of Tim's meticulous tea preparation; well, now this is a thing he knows how to do, too. There certainly seems to be a grace to it, a method to the rich-people madness. A stray observation strikes him, has him chuckling absently to himself with his palm pressed politely across his mouth. The dietary aids at Arkham are quite particular about cutlery and napkin placement too... but for entirely different reasons. ]
Oh yeah, Dr. Leland always said how important it is to be honest with yourself about your faults and virtues.
[ he nods along in agreement, as though Tim where being totally serious, but his smirk breaks the bluff. Secretly, he thinks that woman is a glorious idiot, and it shows a little, here. That's not a piece of honesty he offers up very often.
John wonders over to the table and drops himself into a seat across Tim. His elbows hit the table and he props his chin on his hands, watching as his host warms his hands on a plain black tea. Aw, so ALL that effort and flourish had been for him? How sweet! ]
I did, and actually-- I do. It's this whole 'trying to be a decent person' thing? It's so difficult. At least this time I get a second date out of it.
[ His tone is so dead-serious that it must be a play; he betrays his own obnoxious sarcasm by winking at Tim, as though to admit his own ridiculousness, as he sets about preparing his tea. ]
Now, would you open the thing already? You're KILLING me with anticipation, over here!
[ He roughly (but playfully) boots Tim's leg under the table a couple times, trying to spur him into action. ] Stop playing hard to get and do it already!!
[It must be lonely being so clever, is his brief thought. Having no one to share it with, that you're playing other people; even yourself. Humans, even shadowed and curled ones, were still a communal species. It's why criminals so often told on themselves. People just couldn't help it.
But John seemed trained in having layers and layers of... not quite scratching the surface of reality. Feints and dips and 'try again later', like a Magic 8 Ball. He wondered if the man knew himself, even; or just was the only one who did.
Maybe he felt Bruce did.
It must be exhausting to say so many things in half-measures and then to turn heel and say something else and to leave so many sentences open to being real-- or just a punchline. It exhausts Tim just trying to keep up... mostly because he can't help but keep up, his mind working just as quickly as John's.
He sips the tea, sets it down without much of a clatter.]
One, this isn't a date. Dating means asking someone, and that someone agreeing. Two; please stop kicking me, I bruise easily. [Well THAT'S not true.] And three-- yes.
[He'd go to grab up the gift finally, once again squinting with a furrowed brow at the paper... before going to carefully unwrap it.
Wary, even if he isn't expecting harm... exactly.]
Yeah, yeah-- I know, I was joking. But the fact that you so strongly felt you had to correct me? Now that's interesting... a lot to unpack there, Shorty~
[ Tim's a clever cookie indeed; John does think Bruce understands him-- John's Bruce does, in the twisted ways abusers can recognize their own fingerprints. Tim doesn't know that beyond that, John and Bruce share an abuser, too.
John loudly slurps his tea and all but flutters his eyelashes at Tim across the rim of his cup. He looks like he wants to keep inventing new ways to be a pest-- but Tim goes for that package and the older man settles into Observation Mode, keeping his feet to himself for the moment. ]
Go on, go on! It's not gunna explode, relax already! Pyrotechnics aren't appropriate until after the first week. I'm not that uncultured.
[ Cue devious, skittering giggles. He's all chaotic contradictions; a brilliant dumb-ass, a clumsy acrobat, a sweet-heart and a psychopath. Here his charm is buffering his awkwardness but it doesn't always, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason who which part of his mental mechanics steer which interaction.
They way his fingers strum so restlessly on his cup does betray a little of his anxiety, though. ]
You do a lot of flirting for someone who's joking around about it... I don't know many people blunt enough for me to actually notice.
[He unwraps the package and from it, pulls the jacket. Inspecting it first for anything off-- a poison sheen, a tracker in the stitching-- but in so inspecting, he began to see the tremendous amount of DIY and... care, that had gone into it. Creativtiy.
Conner would have screamed over a jacket this cool. It felt like something that made you look cool just by virtue of wearing it, even if you were... well, Tim Drake. It caught the light in interesting ways. And he ...genuinely liked the sleeves. A lot.]
Wow. This is actually-- so super cool?
[Peering over the edge of the jacket, still aloft, to look him in the eye, expression open and just a little bit tinged with surprise and pleasure.]
REALLY? [ Cool your jets, John. He grabs the edge of the table and reels forward, somehow avoiding knocking into the tea clutter as he invades Tim's space with an utterly radiant grin and big bright eyes; he's almost, almost cute, in the way that extremely creepy things can come full circle to adorkable-ness.
A split second later he reels back again, so hard he almost falls backwards out of his chair. He grasps the ledge of the table twice as hard, steadying himself and artlessly clearing his throat. This time when he speaks, he manages to sound less blisteringly exuberant. ]
I mean... yeah? Really? You like it? That's the second-- no, third jacket I've ever sewn! I uh-- I hope it fits? I tried to match your original, but I had already starting cutting it apart when I thought to-- anyway, do you wanna maybe... try it on?
[ Typically John's brain surges the happy chemicals for predictable events; violence, bloodshed, chaos, skill and perfect precision. Tim's pleasantly temperate expression doesn't hit the same intensity... but it registers on the scale. That's... something? Usually it's the gratitude of people like Bruce or Harley that quenches his need for validation. This feels different, but not... not terrible. ]
Oh! You're welcome-- like, so welcome. Like I said, I felt bad for wrecking your coat. If YOUR BFF wants one, he's gunna have to trade me something-- and you're gunna have to tell me his size. No guarantee it'll turn out half as nice as yours though, I was feeling inspired
[ Just shy of saying 'you inspire me', but obviously, he has no real reason to tell Tim Drake that. ]
[Tim brightens at his thrill, finding it... well, it was unnerving, but like in a cute way? He's never been big on judging people by how they look, and joy was joy, and it was sweet to see someone so genuinely exuberant about gift giving. It was... touching, almost.
Especially since homemade gifts just hit harder. They were more special, memorable, and important. He'd take that over expensive any day. And even if the movies were an odd memory, and John an odd duck, it was still kind of him to memorialize their meeting in this over-the-top way.
Most people just added each other on instagram and texted 'tnx'.]
Yeah, sure!
[And while he's a little self-conscious that he is, in a way, putting on a show for this man who is literally teetering in his chair and threw a batarang at his head the other day, it's smothered over by good manners and his own genuine excitement over the jacket.
He'd get up, going to slide the jacket on, sleeve by sleeve; wiggling an arm a little to get it on, since it was slick and tight. Which... actually, matched the long sleeved, black turtleneck perfectly.]
Kon? He's uh, size huge and I think he'll have to source his own. I'll revel in his jealousy.
[There's something warm and honied in his voice; teasing without malice. It's clear when he says 'Kon', there's weight there; this is a beloved person.
Who he nonetheless is totally going to fuck with by having jacked his go-to leather jacket DIY style SO HARD. Hand-done stitching and all!
Having the jacket on now, he'd turn, holding arms akimbo a little bit; the arms looked tight, which gave it a sleek appearance, but the body was a bit oversized, which veered more into cute, with the designs making it quite edgy. Overall, it fit, and he had a natural kind of charm and confidence wearing it-- almost... a little... like a certain birdie, comfortable in its second uniformed skin.]
[ John has a lot going on, but enthusiasm (even genuine enthusiasm) is on the list, somewhere. He's happy that Tim is happy; that doesn't become any less true, just because he'd still whip a Jokerrang at the guy just for the thrill of watching him catch it at the very last second.
Maybe later, when they're not still playing pretend.
Once Tim is dressed John gives a long loud wolf-whistle-- but it's more friendly than lurid, just barely. ]
Oh yeah? That makes the real question... can you lift him? I can lift my bestie with one arm. You know, for safety reasons.
[ John catches that fondness wrapped around Connor's cute little nickname; oh, what a juicy, potentially useful piece of intel! As much as Joker sees a tool he can use, John, on the other hand, knows a thing or two about being in love with your best friend. ]
But never mind bench-pressing buddies-- that looks amazing on you. Here, let me just...
[ He stands from his seat and sweeps over to Tim, too-smooth fluidity interrupted by a stark moment of hesitation. After a beat, he reaches forward with half the speed, without caution but with a certain deliberation--
And takes up the buckled belt stitched along the re-fitted waistline of the coat. Despite his typical awkwardness, the man is rather quick and dexterous in tucking the tether through the buckle and tightening the coat around Tim's ribs.
Does he resemble a certain red-wearing Bat-adjacent vigilante? John simply does not notice a bit! ]
... There, that's better.
[ Standing close as he is, the clever clown steals a few moments appreciating that notable height difference between them; the pleasured enjoyment on his face lends subtext to his preference for calling Tim Shorty. ]
I thinkKon is going to want to get that jacket off of you for... different reasons than you think
[It's an invasion of personal space that's carried out with such missle-like finesse and dexterity that Tim almost doesn't notice it until it's already happening, and by then, the proximity, the height difference, the snap of leather and the jangle of a metal buckle, the earthy smell of the jacket and John's exacting eyes doing a sweep have done enough to put him into fawn position, wide eyes, arms frozen partway up, as John then adjusts him, and decrees his work done.
It feels tighter now, a little restrictive; and he'd be lying if he said he didn't like that.
But, focus, Tim. Focus.
Clearing his throat, his nose bridge would burnish pink a little and he'd tip his head so threads of jet hair shifted like shadows to hide his eyes.]
...thanks. That feels better, yeah. And uh-- no. Can't lift the guy, he's too dense. In more than one meaning of the word.
And -- I have no idea what you're talking about.
[He had some idea. But he couldn't think about it too hard, or he'd spontaneously combust. Probably.]
[ Fawn Position is a good look on Tim, John decides; the failed vigilante is by no means a blushing coquette, but it's usually him wearing the wide eyes in this kind of equation. It's... satisfying, to be the source of that blooming blush-- it's satisfying to see Tim in his old jacket, too. ]
Oh come on... [ he hangs his hands on his own belt and angles his arms outwards as he tips at the waist, invading just a couple more inches of Tim's space; he looks to be trying to catch the younger man's eyes, trying to pry for some eye contact he could use to judge the exact depth of Tim's sheepishness. ] I can tell from how you said his name... you like him! Don't you? Don't you?~
[ John is having way, way too much fun with this newfound weakness. Actually-- he's over the moon to find yet another thing in common with his new friend! Are they BOTH in love with their BFFs, but it's somehow tragically complicated? How crazy is that? ]
I think you do-- I also think you're way smarter than you let on, Shorty. And I think you look good in red.
[The sound Tim makes is under his breath, both low and high-pitched, and more undignified than he'd like to admit. Now panic is settling in about that bashfulness, like a fish caught by its mouth by a finger crooked into a hook shape, gaping and trying to remember how to breathe in unfamilair territory.
This man is standing very close, and Tim is suddenly acutely aware of three facts:
1. They smell like each other. It's an odd thing to notice, but who washes leather jackets? And despite the stench of smoke and glitter glue and alloy studs, John in his jacket smells like him-- like books and dark roast and cotton fibers-- and he smells like John, a scent he's getting used to as it cloys from all sides now that he's stapled into this jacket.
2. He maybe has feelings for Conner, but that cannot be possible, ergo:
3. He realizes he's maybe lying to himself about having feelings for Conner, and you know what? Good for him. Keep that up. Rah rah, go Titans.
Tilting his head away, the color rising along his cheeks now in stark contrast to his eyes, he'd huff through his nose and shove his hands into the pockets of the jacket.]
Absolutely not. I mean, I love him-- he's my best friend-- but love and like are different, and he's a jerk anyway, and--
[ You're way smarter than you let on... And I think you look good in red.
Tim pauses. Stares past John.
And because he is smarter than he lets on, he thinks he knows... what that means.
[ The scents that linger on John's revamped coat are oddly adjacent yet opposing the remnant aromas left in his swapped clothing; instead of books, John's jacket lived by old news print; instead of dark roast, it absorbed sweeter shades of caffeine scents. It also smells faintly of expensive matte-foundation, gun powder, blade-oil and medical-grade rubbing alcohol, which... tracks, considering his typical antics. The leather is especially heavy and lived in, like he's worn it in the coldest, dampest parts of Gotham.
It's terrible for Tim that John keep finding more and more to claim as common ground between them; he remembers standing in that alleyway, feeling his stomach flip as Bruce asked him with such raw uncertainty "are you in love with me?"
NOPE. That NOPE is a brand John recognizes right here and now, and his glee bubbles out in teasing, devious giggles. Oh, this is TOO good! ]
Uh-huh, yeah, suuuuure. Here's a secret for you Tim, I'm a lot smarter than I let on, too. And I think you've got a big fat crush!
[ His head cants sharply to the left, giving him the aura of an observant Cheshire cat. A shock of satisfied jubilation shoots through him like a chemical injection hitting his bloodstream. Those blue, blue eyes looks so icy undercut with that dusk-pink glow draped beneath them.
He meets Tim's gaze but conceeds not a thing in his stare; he merely smiles, shakes his tilted head, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ]
I'm afraid I can see it, plain as day! You... are love-sick, and you absolutely cannot convince me otherwise [ That's almost, almost a dare. ] Step one? You really should work on being able to lift him. You know, for safety reasons. [ He says 'safety' like a dirty word. ]
But maybe I'm a lot smarter than I let on, too says it all. Be careful, careful, careful with this one...
Tim is transformative. He can make something of nothing, make up of down, make zig of zag. So he summons his courage and, reeking then of the not-offensive perfume of makeup oils and motor oils, he'd transform his reticence into indigence, hands finding his hips, cheek puffing out-- just briefly-- in youthful exasperation on the right side.]
You have no idea what you're talking about. A crush? On that guy? I'd rather eat my own shoe, and no, that isn't a viable suggestion. Your trail has gone cold here, much like your tea. And I can't lift him-- he's huge. Think, rippling muscles and two-tonne ego strapped onto the back of it.
Someone like that, you just trip 'em to bring them down to size...
[Added, under his breath, gaze flitting away again.]
[ John's arms weave around his own chest and he tips backwards at the waist, venting a stream of deviously smug chuckles at Tim's very, very heart-felt self-gas-lighting. ]
Oh God you're cute-- here, let me show you-- [ He clears his throat, fans his fingers across his collarbone, and speaks in an impressively accurate mimicry of Tim's voice. ] 'He's huge! Think 'rippling muscles'... 'you just trip 'em to bring them down to size
So you HAVE already thought about how to bring him down. Telling! Come on Tim, why're you so embarrassed? You can't even get through telling me you don't like the guy without mentioning his strapping physique!
Wait hold on, let me guess-- you don't wanna mess things up with him, right? That's why the river in Egypt?
[ Something in him is enjoying invading Tim's space, pushing this envelope. But something else in him tips the steering wheel and he drops back into his seat, after a moment; the smile he passes Tim is oddly... soft? ]
Hey, I know we just met and everything, but I get it. I really, really get it. I had a whole... thing with my bestie. But I promise you this. If you don't admit how you feel about him? That'll drive you CRAZY.
[ His laughter shifts from off-kilter amusement to something almost nervous, almost... embarrassed, that he smothers with a long sip of cool tea. Yeah. He knows something about that, too. ]
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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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[ All the uncertainty and awkwardness in this creature belongs to John, and it's his side of the coin flipped up while he artlessly paws the back of his own neck, looking genuinely embarrassed over his lapse in "common" knowledge. It's a bit wonky, existing as a socially awkward, isolated weirdo and a genius, all at once. Surely no one else could relate. ]
Uhh... you know what? I'll just defer to your superior Tea Party Know How. Clearly I did NOT do enough homework before dropping by. I'm probably the least researched stalker to ever hop that fence.
[ He waggles his finger and shakes his head, 'tsk tsk tsking' in mock disappointment at his own ill-preparedness. Honestly John, way to look like an uneducated idiot. Tim doesn't seem to mind though-- he just goes on with his charming hosting behavior, endearing the unstable man all the more. ]
Wow, do you have every kind of milk known to man in that fridge? Let's just do cream, it's way too early to get into the kinkier stuff.
[ He waves his hand at the wrist, friendly-dismissive and blatantly flamboyant.]
And it's not weird [ It's totally weird. ] I wrecked your coat-- accidentally, but still. Then I took it. [ He stands back from the counter, rears to his full height and spreads his arms with the showmanship of a ring master, drawing attention to his adopted attire. ] I thought I should... re-balance that equation a little
[ He listens to Tim spiral deductions with a keen little smirk; yup, his brain does that too, vroom-vroom go the sparking neurons. ]
I just so happened to catch your face in an old newspaper I was reading. From there? The address isn't actually to hard to find. The thing about poor people, Rich Boy, is that we do personalized gifts because we can't afford expensive ones. Sorry if that's awkward for you.
[ He's prickling Tim but not maliciously; his knife-edged grin isn't pointed straight for the jugular. The fact that John is playfully deflecting means Tim did hit the nail on the head, the approval brightening the green in John's eyes is more than enough proof of that. ]
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He didn't put it into the milk... pourer... thinggie, because even he had limits. (Sorry, Alfred.)
Having a seat by the gift, and keeping his tea black, he'd finally look up again at John-- having taken less than no offense.]
So you admit you're a stalker? That's nice, most people aren't as self-actualized as all that. [A soft smile to show he was joking, before bringing the tea up into his hands to warm them.] ...so you made me something to make up for my jacket?
[Which now looked fairly bedazzled on the Joker himself, he realized as he gave him a slow once-over. Huh. Well, the purple patterning did work for him.]
...that's nice of you. You didn't have to go out of your way.
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Oh yeah, Dr. Leland always said how important it is to be honest with yourself about your faults and virtues.
[ he nods along in agreement, as though Tim where being totally serious, but his smirk breaks the bluff. Secretly, he thinks that woman is a glorious idiot, and it shows a little, here. That's not a piece of honesty he offers up very often.
John wonders over to the table and drops himself into a seat across Tim. His elbows hit the table and he props his chin on his hands, watching as his host warms his hands on a plain black tea. Aw, so ALL that effort and flourish had been for him? How sweet! ]
I did, and actually-- I do. It's this whole 'trying to be a decent person' thing? It's so difficult. At least this time I get a second date out of it.
[ His tone is so dead-serious that it must be a play; he betrays his own obnoxious sarcasm by winking at Tim, as though to admit his own ridiculousness, as he sets about preparing his tea. ]
Now, would you open the thing already? You're KILLING me with anticipation, over here!
[ He roughly (but playfully) boots Tim's leg under the table a couple times, trying to spur him into action. ] Stop playing hard to get and do it already!!
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But John seemed trained in having layers and layers of... not quite scratching the surface of reality. Feints and dips and 'try again later', like a Magic 8 Ball. He wondered if the man knew himself, even; or just was the only one who did.
Maybe he felt Bruce did.
It must be exhausting to say so many things in half-measures and then to turn heel and say something else and to leave so many sentences open to being real-- or just a punchline. It exhausts Tim just trying to keep up... mostly because he can't help but keep up, his mind working just as quickly as John's.
He sips the tea, sets it down without much of a clatter.]
One, this isn't a date. Dating means asking someone, and that someone agreeing. Two; please stop kicking me, I bruise easily. [Well THAT'S not true.] And three-- yes.
[He'd go to grab up the gift finally, once again squinting with a furrowed brow at the paper... before going to carefully unwrap it.
Wary, even if he isn't expecting harm... exactly.]
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[ Tim's a clever cookie indeed; John does think Bruce understands him-- John's Bruce does, in the twisted ways abusers can recognize their own fingerprints. Tim doesn't know that beyond that, John and Bruce share an abuser, too.
John loudly slurps his tea and all but flutters his eyelashes at Tim across the rim of his cup. He looks like he wants to keep inventing new ways to be a pest-- but Tim goes for that package and the older man settles into Observation Mode, keeping his feet to himself for the moment. ]
Go on, go on! It's not gunna explode, relax already! Pyrotechnics aren't appropriate until after the first week. I'm not that uncultured.
[ Cue devious, skittering giggles. He's all chaotic contradictions; a brilliant dumb-ass, a clumsy acrobat, a sweet-heart and a psychopath. Here his charm is buffering his awkwardness but it doesn't always, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason who which part of his mental mechanics steer which interaction.
They way his fingers strum so restlessly on his cup does betray a little of his anxiety, though. ]
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[He unwraps the package and from it, pulls the jacket. Inspecting it first for anything off-- a poison sheen, a tracker in the stitching-- but in so inspecting, he began to see the tremendous amount of DIY and... care, that had gone into it. Creativtiy.
Conner would have screamed over a jacket this cool. It felt like something that made you look cool just by virtue of wearing it, even if you were... well, Tim Drake. It caught the light in interesting ways. And he ...genuinely liked the sleeves. A lot.]
Wow. This is actually-- so super cool?
[Peering over the edge of the jacket, still aloft, to look him in the eye, expression open and just a little bit tinged with surprise and pleasure.]
Thank you. My best friend's gonna be so jealous.
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A split second later he reels back again, so hard he almost falls backwards out of his chair. He grasps the ledge of the table twice as hard, steadying himself and artlessly clearing his throat. This time when he speaks, he manages to sound less blisteringly exuberant. ]
I mean... yeah? Really? You like it? That's the second-- no, third jacket I've ever sewn! I uh-- I hope it fits? I tried to match your original, but I had already starting cutting it apart when I thought to-- anyway, do you wanna maybe... try it on?
[ Typically John's brain surges the happy chemicals for predictable events; violence, bloodshed, chaos, skill and perfect precision. Tim's pleasantly temperate expression doesn't hit the same intensity... but it registers on the scale. That's... something? Usually it's the gratitude of people like Bruce or Harley that quenches his need for validation. This feels different, but not... not terrible. ]
Oh! You're welcome-- like, so welcome. Like I said, I felt bad for wrecking your coat. If YOUR BFF wants one, he's gunna have to trade me something-- and you're gunna have to tell me his size. No guarantee it'll turn out half as nice as yours though, I was feeling inspired
[ Just shy of saying 'you inspire me', but obviously, he has no real reason to tell Tim Drake that. ]
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Especially since homemade gifts just hit harder. They were more special, memorable, and important. He'd take that over expensive any day. And even if the movies were an odd memory, and John an odd duck, it was still kind of him to memorialize their meeting in this over-the-top way.
Most people just added each other on instagram and texted 'tnx'.]
Yeah, sure!
[And while he's a little self-conscious that he is, in a way, putting on a show for this man who is literally teetering in his chair and threw a batarang at his head the other day, it's smothered over by good manners and his own genuine excitement over the jacket.
He'd get up, going to slide the jacket on, sleeve by sleeve; wiggling an arm a little to get it on, since it was slick and tight. Which... actually, matched the long sleeved, black turtleneck perfectly.]
Kon? He's uh, size huge and I think he'll have to source his own. I'll revel in his jealousy.
[There's something warm and honied in his voice; teasing without malice. It's clear when he says 'Kon', there's weight there; this is a beloved person.
Who he nonetheless is totally going to fuck with by having jacked his go-to leather jacket DIY style SO HARD. Hand-done stitching and all!
Having the jacket on now, he'd turn, holding arms akimbo a little bit; the arms looked tight, which gave it a sleek appearance, but the body was a bit oversized, which veered more into cute, with the designs making it quite edgy. Overall, it fit, and he had a natural kind of charm and confidence wearing it-- almost... a little... like a certain birdie, comfortable in its second uniformed skin.]
It fits, right? Well-- what do you think?
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Maybe later, when they're not still playing pretend.
Once Tim is dressed John gives a long loud wolf-whistle-- but it's more friendly than lurid, just barely. ]
Oh yeah? That makes the real question... can you lift him? I can lift my bestie with one arm. You know, for safety reasons.
[ John catches that fondness wrapped around Connor's cute little nickname; oh, what a juicy, potentially useful piece of intel! As much as Joker sees a tool he can use, John, on the other hand, knows a thing or two about being in love with your best friend. ]
But never mind bench-pressing buddies-- that looks amazing on you. Here, let me just...
[ He stands from his seat and sweeps over to Tim, too-smooth fluidity interrupted by a stark moment of hesitation. After a beat, he reaches forward with half the speed, without caution but with a certain deliberation--
And takes up the buckled belt stitched along the re-fitted waistline of the coat. Despite his typical awkwardness, the man is rather quick and dexterous in tucking the tether through the buckle and tightening the coat around Tim's ribs.
Does he resemble a certain red-wearing Bat-adjacent vigilante? John simply does not notice a bit! ]
... There, that's better.
[ Standing close as he is, the clever clown steals a few moments appreciating that notable height difference between them; the pleasured enjoyment on his face lends subtext to his preference for calling Tim Shorty. ]
I think Kon is going to want to get that jacket off of you for... different reasons than you think
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It feels tighter now, a little restrictive; and he'd be lying if he said he didn't like that.
But, focus, Tim. Focus.
Clearing his throat, his nose bridge would burnish pink a little and he'd tip his head so threads of jet hair shifted like shadows to hide his eyes.]
...thanks. That feels better, yeah. And uh-- no. Can't lift the guy, he's too dense. In more than one meaning of the word.
And -- I have no idea what you're talking about.
[He had some idea. But he couldn't think about it too hard, or he'd spontaneously combust. Probably.]
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Oh come on... [ he hangs his hands on his own belt and angles his arms outwards as he tips at the waist, invading just a couple more inches of Tim's space; he looks to be trying to catch the younger man's eyes, trying to pry for some eye contact he could use to judge the exact depth of Tim's sheepishness. ] I can tell from how you said his name... you like him! Don't you? Don't you?~
[ John is having way, way too much fun with this newfound weakness. Actually-- he's over the moon to find yet another thing in common with his new friend! Are they BOTH in love with their BFFs, but it's somehow tragically complicated? How crazy is that? ]
I think you do-- I also think you're way smarter than you let on, Shorty. And I think you look good in red.
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This man is standing very close, and Tim is suddenly acutely aware of three facts:
1. They smell like each other. It's an odd thing to notice, but who washes leather jackets? And despite the stench of smoke and glitter glue and alloy studs, John in his jacket smells like him-- like books and dark roast and cotton fibers-- and he smells like John, a scent he's getting used to as it cloys from all sides now that he's stapled into this jacket.
2. He maybe has feelings for Conner, but that cannot be possible, ergo:
3. He realizes he's maybe lying to himself about having feelings for Conner, and you know what? Good for him. Keep that up. Rah rah, go Titans.
Tilting his head away, the color rising along his cheeks now in stark contrast to his eyes, he'd huff through his nose and shove his hands into the pockets of the jacket.]
Absolutely not. I mean, I love him-- he's my best friend-- but love and like are different, and he's a jerk anyway, and--
[ You're way smarter than you let on... And I think you look good in red.
Tim pauses. Stares past John.
And because he is smarter than he lets on, he thinks he knows... what that means.
His eyes meet John's, in recognition. Searching.
Do you know?]
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It's terrible for Tim that John keep finding more and more to claim as common ground between them; he remembers standing in that alleyway, feeling his stomach flip as Bruce asked him with such raw uncertainty "are you in love with me?"
NOPE. That NOPE is a brand John recognizes right here and now, and his glee bubbles out in teasing, devious giggles. Oh, this is TOO good! ]
Uh-huh, yeah, suuuuure. Here's a secret for you Tim, I'm a lot smarter than I let on, too. And I think you've got a big fat crush!
[ His head cants sharply to the left, giving him the aura of an observant Cheshire cat. A shock of satisfied jubilation shoots through him like a chemical injection hitting his bloodstream. Those blue, blue eyes looks so icy undercut with that dusk-pink glow draped beneath them.
He meets Tim's gaze but conceeds not a thing in his stare; he merely smiles, shakes his tilted head, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ]
I'm afraid I can see it, plain as day! You... are love-sick, and you absolutely cannot convince me otherwise [ That's almost, almost a dare. ] Step one? You really should work on being able to lift him. You know, for safety reasons. [ He says 'safety' like a dirty word. ]
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But maybe I'm a lot smarter than I let on, too says it all. Be careful, careful, careful with this one...
Tim is transformative. He can make something of nothing, make up of down, make zig of zag. So he summons his courage and, reeking then of the not-offensive perfume of makeup oils and motor oils, he'd transform his reticence into indigence, hands finding his hips, cheek puffing out-- just briefly-- in youthful exasperation on the right side.]
You have no idea what you're talking about. A crush? On that guy? I'd rather eat my own shoe, and no, that isn't a viable suggestion. Your trail has gone cold here, much like your tea. And I can't lift him-- he's huge. Think, rippling muscles and two-tonne ego strapped onto the back of it.
Someone like that, you just trip 'em to bring them down to size...
[Added, under his breath, gaze flitting away again.]
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Oh God you're cute-- here, let me show you-- [ He clears his throat, fans his fingers across his collarbone, and speaks in an impressively accurate mimicry of Tim's voice. ] 'He's huge! Think 'rippling muscles'... 'you just trip 'em to bring them down to size
So you HAVE already thought about how to bring him down. Telling! Come on Tim, why're you so embarrassed? You can't even get through telling me you don't like the guy without mentioning his strapping physique!
Wait hold on, let me guess-- you don't wanna mess things up with him, right? That's why the river in Egypt?
[ Something in him is enjoying invading Tim's space, pushing this envelope. But something else in him tips the steering wheel and he drops back into his seat, after a moment; the smile he passes Tim is oddly... soft? ]
Hey, I know we just met and everything, but I get it. I really, really get it. I had a whole... thing with my bestie. But I promise you this. If you don't admit how you feel about him? That'll drive you CRAZY.
[ His laughter shifts from off-kilter amusement to something almost nervous, almost... embarrassed, that he smothers with a long sip of cool tea. Yeah. He knows something about that, too. ]
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