[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. ]
He-ey! [Huffed, at that pantomime approximation of himself, as John sat back down and Tim followed suit, dropping into his own seat with a grumpy lopsided expression.]
Look, since you're apparently a Junior, C-rank stalker, I'll just tell you who my best friend is, since it's extremely public knowledge, and you can like-- Google him. And see that the 'rippling muscles' comment is less about 'iya~ I have such a massive crush on this strapping young gentleman!' and more about 'literally, where does he even fit his organs, he's so buff???'
Conner Luthor.
[Conner Luthor would seem like a fitting best friend for Timothy Drake; two fanatically rich kids, attached to tech corps.
That his name was actually Conner Kent and he was half-cloned from Superman's DNA? That, the reporters hadn't sniffed onto yet. Clark and Lois saw to that. So, he was just Lex's flashy Metropolis son; all sunglasses indoors, rockstar leather, and trysts at galas.
Tim would drum his fingers on the table.]
Did you really just make a 'the Nile'/denial joke? Jeez. You're worse than my eldest brother.
[And by John's bestie, did he mean... Bruce? Shuddering inwardly at the idea of having two dads in quite this manner-- much less having one of them in his kitchen flirting with him.
Not that, uh, the Batfamily didn't have certain... overtones to begin with, but that's a story for people on invitation-only.]
So how did telling your 'bestie' about being in love with him go, if you're speaking from experience?
[The tables, let him turn them on you while he nibbles on a lemon square.]
[ John does in fact pull out his cell phone, and run the name through google. ]
I see, I see! Love the aesthetic-- he looks like he could break a guy in half! Maybe if you really ARN'T interested, I should stick him on my 'To Be Stalked' list...
[ This is absolutely Tim Bait, but who knows, even brilliant men walk into idiot traps when they're feeling especially endeared to someone. John is generally ridiculous enough, and sounds like he's seriously considering the idea, that the odds break even on if he's pulling Tim's leg or not. He browses a few articles on his phone, rapidly absorbing the media that flows across his little square screen. Another rich kid, huh? Does every Bat-adjacent-side-kick have the same type or what? John ignores the criticism to his joke-- some people just have no taste, he can't help that.
His exuberance flickers at Tim's question, though. For a second he glances away, mired in a fathomless uncertainty and-- regret? But his mind has mechanics for protecting itself; his hazy, unhinged grin slides back into place and he sighs almost wistfully, unhooking the cuff of his shirt and rolling back his sleeve.
He shows Tim the scar straight through his palm again and also, the whisper-light remnants of surgery incisions down to his elbow and spanning beyond it; his arm had been broken (in at least two places) badly enough to requite metal pins and bars to aid the repair. ]
Oh, HUGE fight-- but it was really, really complicated. Turned out just great in the end, because he said we're still friends! But... I did go a little crazy on him. Because I was jealous. Because I was not being honest with myself about how I wanted him to feel about me.
[ John drains the rest of his warm ice tea with a deliberate, pointed look angled right at Tim as he does. ]
Dating friends is high risk, high reward Shorty. I can tell you all about that.
Yeah...? And how did he tell you he feels about you?
[Tim doesn't sway off-topic now. He isn't worried about confessing to Conner; Conner would sleep with anything that moved, emphasis on 'thing'. Gender didn't even come into it. He loved being loved, and that was that. The worst complication that would come from telling Conner he had a crush on him-- which he did! not! have!!!-- would be dealing with Conner's ego about it forever and ever onwards.
Tim slides a foot onto his chair, pressing his chin to his knee, watching John carefully, gauging his reactions, memorizing his expressions as he spoke... and popping the rest of the lemon bar into his mouth, hooking sticky fingers in after and popping them off clean.]
Just friends means it didn't end up where you wanted it?
[ Tim has rather optimistic expectations of 'the worst' that could go wrong; John can't help but veer closer towards pessimistic, even if he wouldn't exactly advise against making a move. Dealing with Connor's ego would only be the best of the worst. The Worst of the worst is where the real problems are.
High risk, high reward, like John said. ]
WELL... I didn't exactly... give him a chance to say much after I told him [ what with all the stabbing and attempting to kill people. John draws up his legs, tucking his heels onto the seat right in front of his butt and twining his arms around his jagged knees. ]
I did mention I went a little crazy, right? Well... maybe it was a lot crazy. But-- after? When we were done going at it, when neither of us could move, when we were actually talking before we passed out... [ HE'S TALKING ABOUT FIGHTING. HE'S TALKING ABOUT FIGHTING. DEAR GOD JOHN. ] I asked him if he ever considered me a real friend. Like, someone he really cares about... and he said yes.
[ The small curl at the corner of his mouth is barely a smile; he actually looks (actually feels) genuinely sad. Maybe he's not exactly remorseful he killed three people, but he's sad he disappointed his friend. That's an extremely unique anomaly among the canon multiverse, here. ]
So... I'm pretty sure, even after that HUGE fight, we're... okay? He even came to see me after a while, in person-- right to my door! I wish I could tell you what he was gunna say... but I got uh-- transferred here. Before we could talk. I can't... think about it to much. He's where he is, I'm where I am, makes my teeth itch...
... Which is basically my point. Even when things go Not Terribly... it's still way too easy to lose your head over the guy you love, and end up stuck somewhere in limbo. Especially for... you know... Rich Kids [ he doesn't actually mime the air quotations, but they sound clearly in his tone.
Apparently amid all this atypical honestly something in John's mind craved a familiar mechanic and ticked over to the command, 'mimic'. So just like Tim, he takes a rather generous chomp of a lemon square--
And then his eyes widen in sheer food-horror as he realizes his mistake.
Arkhman lemon squares are propably made with like. Paste. And not real lemon curd cured off the tits of a lemon goddess, or whatever the hell this stuff is. It. is. so. SOUR!!
John clamps one hand over his mouth, stifling the urge to spit out the offensive snack; his free hand balls into a fist and he keeps striking the table, groaning in distress as the flavor continues to hijack his sheltered taste-buds. John goes for his tea-- but he already finished that!
His eyes shoot to Tim with a look of almost desperate pleading. He needs an adult some assistance here; it doesn't take course on manners to realize spitting on your host is rude. There are napkins right--?? But are they those fabric, re-washable kind? Are you even allowed to spit into those?? ]
[Tim doesn't doubt for a second what 'going at it' means in the context of 'Batman' and 'John, the Joker, going more than a lil' crazy'. He knows it means a fight. Madness. Chaos. Gore, most likely. Something that had ended in his fragmented bones and fragmented heart alike. The scar jagged across his hand, almost the same shape as his smile, both off somehow and yet ever-present, too.
He would have had a remark to proffer to all that, likely even a clever or empathetic one, but then his brows are shooting up as he watches John... die? Literally die??? What is going on?]
Oh no, are you allergic...? It has gluten-- the dairy isn't an issue, right? Um--
[Getting up, to go pour him a tall glass of water.]
[ He can only violently shake his head and groan in mounting distress-- he follows right on Tim's heels as the concerned host instinctively makes the right move, even if he asked the wrong questions. He shuffles from foot to foot as Tim fills a glass-- and once it's half-way full (or half-way empty?) he snatches it from the shorter man's hands and downs the contents in a few gulps. ]
Oh my god... that was so, so sour... I think I might have actually died...
[ He actually did not mean to punctuate all that honesty with such a possibly endearing little interruption. ]
Seriously... I can't taste my tongue... why would people eat that like, willingly?
[ It's more clinical curiosity than actual offense; John has some pretty strange tastes himself, after all. ]
... I'm fine, though. Good, even. I'm good. Thanks for uh... worrying about me.
[ His wilted leaning against the immaculate counter naturally shifts to him sitting up on it. A long tired sigh rolls out of him and he leans back on his elbows, knees hooked on the lip of the counter as he observes Tim with open curiosity. ]
You know... I was trying pretty hard to play Devil's Advocate there-- bust your chops, like how friends do-- and you just... ignored all that the second you thought I needed help-- and I do, by the way, the emotional damage from that lemon Thing is... wow, I think I'm gunna need weeks and weeks of therapy.
[He reminded. As if, wasn't it obvious?, in a house with a Real English Butler, the lemon squares would be pure curd with just a bit of shortbread bottom and powdered sugar top, puckered to perfection, sourness enough but not to make any hearty member of Her Majesty's Army even flutter lashes at it.
Seriously, was this man truly just a Junior Stalker? He didn't realize Alfred Pennyworth ran this house, and Americanism be damned, you cooked things with full fat butter and very little sugar?
And Meyer Lemons?
...And hadn't this guy already done therapy??]
Well, yeah, I wasn't going to let you sit there and suffer just because you teased me. That would be mean-spirited. You're a guest. Although--
[He'd go to pull the arm of the sleeve up, checking his watch. Alfred might be back soon with the groceries.]
It's getting late; we should probably vacate the kitchen. Least another lemon bar decide to make a second attempt on your life.
[ The correct answer to most of those questions is Both-Yes-And-No. ]
Right, right. It'd be a total red flag if you wanted to introduce me to your family, so soon!
[ John hops off the counter, fully expecting to be (and perhaps, prepared to also ignore) asked to leave, but that isn't exactly what Tim says; he just wants John out of the kitchen, and there's a whole lot around other than Kitchen. ]
UHG don't remind me! LEAST favorite thing I've ever had to swallow, hands down! And speaking of swallowing, if you WANT me to leave so you can go think about Connor's muscles, just say so, jeez...
[ It's a little bit of reverse psychology; John doesn't even mean to manipulate exactly; he's just intelligent enough to understand the relation between the cause of effect of his statement. Tim wanting to prove he's not in love with Connor (yeah, right) might just nudge him into hanging around with John a little longer. John wouldn't mind that.
He's just a touch starved for healthy companionship. A bit. ]
[A brow raise, by far and away not the first with John. He must have thought by now that this was Tim's most-used expression.
Why would he... be introducing him to his family... at all, ever??
Tim would dust off his hands and begin to lead the way out, leaving the mess behind him, still in its half-eaten bedlam. Alfred ran a thin line between teaching his boys to be helpful and responsible, and sequestering some jobs as his and his alone, and sometimes that changed as the wind blew. But with the china, it was almost always all Alfred. Plus the discarded leaves would help him mentally calculate what was left in the tin, and Tim knew that allowed him to fashion his timelines for new orders. They couldn't be without tea. Plus, he was overly fussy of any of them when they were busy, and with Tim going between Gotham and Blüdhaven and having given up his Genius Grant to Ivy University to do so, he'd been particularly coddling lately.
Tim is so lost in his own over-think about cleaning up that he trip a little on the lip of the doorframe out when Conner's name is brought up again.]
What? No!! What, do you have a crush on him?! You bring him up enough!
[Red. Again. He really does put the red in Red Robin, huh??
And in the context of swallowing-!!...]
Gah, no, no, and no! I'm not going to go use up a tissue box alone in my room thinking about Conner's muscles thank you VERY much! I just have work to do! I'm going to think about work, not getting worked up. I only just came out, I feel like if he wanted to put something in, he'd have let me know.
Do I have a crush on him? [ No, he doesn't look angsty enough, for Bruce- adjacent enough. But John splays his fingers across his collarbone and flutters his eyelashes with a thoughtful, curious hum. ] What a silly question! I DID already say I'm considering him for the 'To Be Stalked' List... [ Before he almost un-alived himself on a lemon square. But never-mind that, John is busy appreciating how easy it is to turn this Robin red. ]
You REALLY need to convince me that's true, huh? But look how flustered you are! Red, red, red... like a cute little cherry bomb~
[ He wonders behind Tim, keeping close to his host more than paying any mind to his proximity to the door. His teasing throaty chuckles follow a rather rough pinch to Tim's cheek-- not hard enough to bruise, but certainly enough to darken the color on his face. It's a kind of brutal friendliness, like a slap on the shoulder, superficial pain and botheration as a token of endearment.
The way his hand lingers for three beats of the heart, thumb curiously tracing that flushed shadow of his pinch, is something else. ]
Hm, yeah, I dunno... maybe you're not the only one in that gator infested river?
[ He's standing close again, looming above Tim with one hip slightly cocked and his hands slung casually on his own belt. He starts to giggle briefly-- and then hum the musical tune accompanying the common teasing jingle, 'Tim and Connor, sitting in a tree...'
He swaps to playfully mocking whistling for the next bit, pale lips pursed, tipping his head back and forth and slinking a sliver closer with each note and letter, 'K-I-S-S-I-N-G'~
Does it happen to seem like John might try to steal a kiss? He doesn't... he just lingers at %90, allows the idea that he might... and then abruptly blows a quick raspberry against Tim's cheek, and flings himself back in a fit of utterly manic giggles.
... How many sugars had he put in his tea? Too many, evidentially. ]
[...Maybe. Maybe this man knew he was Robin. And this was how he'd selected to kill him. With slow slivers of embarrassment, like razor blade streaks, shavings of Tim's own confidence, working the skin off the thing line by line until he's raw and... pulpy.
He can't react too fast. He can't be too obvious. And even if he'd been capable of that, Boy Wonder that he Boy-oh-Boy Was, Tim's own sheepishness rendered it impossible the moment those long fingers had his cheek in their grip. He'd flatten against the near wall like he'd seen something that bone-frightened him, his breathing immediately irregular, his cheek indeed swelling with a more indignant red-brown, his brow furrowing in horror at the song, his heart rate up--...
Don't take it personally, John. He's always been terrible at this. Flinched away from his own girlfriends, hid his face behind his hands for boys he had a crush on, groaned and beggared off of most forms of flirting. He was slick and confident when there wasn't a remote chance of anything happening; the second a kiss was even being referenced? Well, there was a reason he was the only Robin who could ride a unicorn. Reserved for the pure, as they were...
Tim stays still and pressed against the wall for the whole of it, fingers splayed against the wood, looking like his soul has left his body when the onslaught of teasing ends in peels of laughter.
He feels faint.]
...I hate to see what you do for the 'baby carriage' part...
[ It's because he's damn crazy, but John just keeps finding more and more in common with his new friend. This paralyzing shyness is something he's experienced too-- it commonly rendered him a stuttering idiot in his earliest days (and also, his later days) of speaking to Harley Quin. Maybe it's just watered down narcissism-- but John likes seeing himself in other people. It makes him feel close to them. It makes him feel like less of an awkward freak.
So, yeah, he's enjoying watching Tim squirm, beyond the obvious sadist's gratification. ]
Ohho, is that a challenge? Shall I get creative?
[ Playing up the act, John waggles his eyebrows rests his arm against the wall over Tim's head, adopting a classic cheesy pick-up posture from that old movie where they sing about a sex-wagon or something. He tips his jaw to make the point of his gaze obvious as he looks his host from face to toes and back again. Slowly. ]
Come on Shorty, if you can't handle me pulling your leg, how're you ever gunna manage when your cutie-pie Konkon pulls both of them? You know-- apart? Making yourself a really, really easy mark here...
[ He 'walks' a pair of his long pale fingers up the air just in front of Tim, not quite actually touching, from his navel to nose. ]
It's a terrible blend of elements come together in this blizzard that is now a cacophony between his ears. And here is the concoction, boiled down to its elements:
1. Tim hasn't been out long. Male attention, something that's been a long, low craving sitting just under his skin, has been so ignored until now as a desire that there's something of a starvation for it. Any positive, queer attention is, well... flattering, and catches his attention like a jolt to every nerve endings, whether the person was his type or not. He was new, and the newness was painfully acute.
2. The implications, the wordplay. Tim has an incredibly visual brain -- a neural network like a web, that connects everything he's ever seen, smelled, touched together and blends it into the current reality, making him such a keenly-minded detective... so when John says things, he can see their outlines dance frenetic across his gray matter, and when his body doesn't quite complete the circuit, Tim still feels it like it has; the ghost of fingers walking, he knows exactly what each poke would do sensorially, just like that cheek pull was enough to blur the lines between the hot of blood rushing to it and the hot of breath against it.
3. The danger. They're all danger junkies in the bat family, though Tim unrelentingly the least so. Still, there's something jump-scare about having an alternate universe version of the Joker flirt with you. Or, as science explained it: what happens when you feel fear, rage, or attraction is your sympathetic nervous system activates, and then you have to attribute that sensation to something in your environment. So the Joker, poking at him, daring the space between them, punctuating it so harshly? It wasn't that dissimilar from attraction, simply because Tim was so tuned into it, and the frequency was 'wary'.
The end result was that he met his eye and didn't... say anything. Couldn't seem to find the will to, tongue heavy, brow fretted, expression... baffled, quite frankly.
He should tell this guy to get lost now. He didn't love being teased, and this was an uneasy kind of a thing for someone he'd just met to be doing. But he fumbled the words 'get lost' and found himself... just... staring.
It really didn't help his situation, to think of Conner pulling his legs-- anyone's legs-- apart.
But surely the jester had had his fun and would now back off enough to let him breathe, and remind him the very next words out of his mouth needed to be the directions to the door. He'd flounder until John confirmed he was done toying, because he didn't know what else to do but flounder, because he'd never had a man stand this close and talk about sex, to put it bluntly, and he didn't know what to do with that other than straddle the blur between wanting to hear more and wanting to hear less.]
[ Hazy hazel-green eyes fix on Tim's and watch with the locked admiration of a captive audience as all those emotions and thoughts clash inside him. How entertaining-- how enchanting to watch the gravity of all his deliberate efforts drag this brilliant man away from his own common sense. He can tell he's getting under Tim's skin, his carefully chosen words and implications effectively unlacing the younger man into a flustered mess.
Good. John likes him that way, with a severity that mildly surprises him. Without the softer side of his persona, the clever and craven clown could and would keep pushing the envelope; cravings alerted to the conflict in those hunky blue eyes, baited by the deep blush staining the 'secret' Robin red in the face. Joker can be a lurid brute; different circumstances would have had him putting on a show of pinning Harley to Bruce's table in front of him, and that potential is hushed, not dead. His expression gets undeniably hungry and his smile gets sharp, dangerous.
But he only lingers another three heart beats. Then a long over-dramatic sigh leaves him and he pushes off the wall, giving Tim a couple feet of empty space to breathe. ]
You're hopeless, hopeless! You wanna know how I know? Because I was just as hopeless. I know the look. Clearly you need some alone time to cool down... so I will graciously leave you to your... work stuff.
But first. You know you're... pretty neat to hang out with? I had fun, even though the lemon Thing almost killed me and-- and think you're pretty cool people so... can I take a picture? Of us? For my phone?... Please?
[ It's progress enough for John that he thought to ask, opposed to just grabbing Tim and taking the shot. The fact that he (or He) wanted to grab Tim so badly (for a photo, for other things) actually prompted him to veer the opposite way and ask.
Stop being creepy.
Look who you're talking to, buddy.
Tim doesn't exactly have to agree, either. But it would certainly smooth the process of John leaving, probably? ]
[That sharp smile jutting at that obscene angle makes the voltage climb a little higher under his skin, makes the soft hairs smothered by the jacket stand a on end, makes him hunker down into his denial harder, as if to shield himself.
And then, mercifully, it's over, and he's promising to leave. Better, he's giving Tim space, which allows the young man to regain himself as a person, and not as something on display that is gawking back, imagination running a little too deep and vivid, tripping over what ifs?
Tim clears his throat, rubs his knuckles over his tinge-bruised cheek, letting it skirt away the previous feeling of nearness. One he usually likes, but must, must not like from the wrong people. Get it together, Tim. Be logical. He'd always been such a sucker for people who veered into physical teasing; it winded him.]
...thanks... you remember your way to the door, right?
[So close, no cigar...]
A photo? [He squints, grabbing his arm in a soft grip, flexing his fingers sweetly, as if grounding himself to himself.
A photo is a bad idea. It makes it look like they're friends; it could be misused in so many, many ways. He could thing of five off the top of his head, with no effort at all.
It seems cruel in a way to say no after someone hand-delivers a gift you are literally wearing, but...]
I can't do photos. Family policy. Too many people willing to buy them off of you or just straight-up jack your account. We don't really do personal pictures. Sorry.
[Nothing for John to sell, or photoshop, or post online, or moon over tonight while he did 'work stuff'. No fodder.
Tim couldn't let a photo happen, even if his reasoning was a little white lie. His own phone's camera reel had plenty with his found family; but then, they were his family, and this? This was an outsider.]
[ Deer-- or rather, Buck in headlights is a good look for this guy, John (?) observes with heated approval. Flustered, conflicted... looking like he's not sure if he wants to shove John away or something else-- oh, the cunning killer clown could stand to see that again. And again, and again...
But he conceded Tim some room to breathe already; was that kindness, or another carefully positioned pawn piece? A recession aimed only to plant the seed of a thought? Who can say? Certainly not John himself. ]
I do in fact remember precisely the way to your front door, yes.
[ He leans back into his joking-not-joking stalker jest at Tim's initial comment-- but his (objectively rather gentle) refusal is like the gun that starts a race between several rival emotions ripping up John's expression. The looks pass like traded slides, blinking back and forth-- he looks briefly seething, he even starts to tremble as his brows knit harshly down over his acid-glare--
And then suddenly he looks completely heartbroken, wilting at the shoulders and drawing into himself like he'd been struck across the face, like the sadness is literally crippling him.
A slivered second later, his shoulders roll through a languid shrug and he's smiling again, casual as can be. ]
Oh, that's okay. I already pocketed the pictures of you from the paper, not like I have nothing for the photo wall.
[ Maybe he won't ask, next time. At least he thought to, this time. John relents another sigh and spins on his heels, showing Tim him back for the first time in this encounter.
The gun decals he scalped off Tim's new jacket, have been lovingly stitched to the back of Tim's old jacket; the band's insignia split between the garments like a spin off those matching BFF necklaces that fit together like puzzle pieces. ]
Bye Short King Tim... I'll definitely keep in touch~
[ a bold statement that would probably amount to actual bullshit off the lips of someone not actually asking for Tim's contact info. John's just smart enough that he doesn't need to ask. He feels like he can find Tim (or Robin) when his fancy strikes, and he's not exactly wrong. ]
[Tim doesn't forget anything. Not ever. But even if he'd had the sort of mind that did, it wouldn't soon have been able to shake the image of pale, pretty-eyed John Doe waltzing back out his door into a sea of tiny, hidden clicks, wearing a jacket that had a pinky-promise style knitting together of their twin leathers, promising he had plenty to go on from the papers alone.
And he was right; he would get his "selfie" from the gossip rags the next day, headlines the likes of CLOWN PRINCE OF CRIME GIVES DRAKE-WAYNE A PROM-POSAL? and DID THE JOKER JUST PAY THE WAYNES A SOCIAL CALL??? VILLAINOUS LOOK-ALIKE COMES A'CALLIN'!
And photos, grainy and blurred, but real-- of the two of them on the doorstep together, just inches apart-- graced glossy pages and inky papers.
Beyond that though, when there were no further house calls or calamities, Tim kept mum about the meetings, hoped time corrected itself and sent the man back to his own universe, and filed John away. It was far from the first one-off oddity he'd run into in Gotham. Similarly, he'd hang the coat John had made for him deep in his closet and wouldn't don it again since the time in the kitchen John had last buckled him into it, the memory of that grip and tug a little too sharp for his liking.
He went back to his daily grind.
But something... had shifted. He began to notice that on missions it was almost like someone was... watching him? Like a benevolent guardian angel, but one he couldn't prove. He'd get schematics on a place, and find an unruly vent he would have had trouble with... already off his hinges for him. Or would go to disarm a weapon and-- it was already rendered harmless? Or he'd have sworn he tripped that alarm with a stray elbow... but no alarm went off.
All things that totally could happen. Bad construction, faulty wiring, someone forgetting to set the security system to "on". ...But this many times in a row?
He was getting into less scuffs and fewer near-misses lately than ever.
That was, until this mission. Freaks all over Gotham had taken hostages in banks and hotels and were partying it up, unafraid of the GCPD, looting to their heart's content. Damian had gone to free a bank. Dick had come in special to help with the Museum of Antiquities. Bruce had gone to secure the Stock Exchange. That left Tim to deal with the Orchard Hotel, ritzy as it was.
One problem? The hotel had a penthouse with a huge balcony. Palattial. And the Freaks had people tied up and lined along its edges in the high wind, ready to push overboard in a juiced fury if they spotted a vigilante or a cop. Tim had been going around the outer edge of the perimeter of the ledge and safety fastening hostages to its underside with wire rope and grips, so that if they fell, it wasn't far. He had to secure the people before he could take on the painted, punkish gang members.
One problem. Well, two.
One, someone he had gone to secure had gasped loudly and made it obvious they were relieved to see help. In their panic, they accidentally signaled to the Freaks that he was there.
Two, he'd been hanging off this ledge and securing hostages for half an hour now-- his arms were sore-tired to the point of giving out.
And he only had to secure this one, last person. But that was about to get tricky as a few Freaks headed over, weapons in hand, whooping that they planned to send a little bird flying.]
[ With so little stimulating entertainment offered by the clinicians and staff members with which John Doe spent a majority of his time, is it any wonder he'd develop a fondness for soaking in Gotham's unfiltered, often raunchy, or needlessly violent media? He adores the six o'clock news especially, but newspapers, magazines, anything made spicy and flashy by some starving writer trying to make a buck beating off the dead horse of capitalism-- Oh, yes please. John loves this particular flavor of tea, thank you.
So that tickles his fancy for a bit. Then he starts to get bored. A boredom that might be contributed to by the fact that he is uh... technically homeless oops? He can scope out spots, yeah, rig some lights, sure... but no where cozy. Homey.
So sooner rather than later, John starts to get antsy. The lack of home base is counterbalanced by the sheer volume of food for his hyperfixation; Batman does indeed have a family here, a variety of succeeding sidekicks for John to stalk--STUDY, for John to study-- aside from keeping some level of tabs on Tim, figuring out who this 'Connor Luthor' person is, and obviously devoting a decent amount of time to following Batman-- Oh, John barely notices the crippling lack of social supports for displaced people!
He notices a little more when some random gang decides to try and take over the city on a rather grandiose, but ultimately impossible scale. It's like these guys never played Risk or anything, damn. Over-armed, under-intelligent meat-bags.
Really, their lack of finesse is fucking insulting.
I mean-- oh no, people in peril, must save innocent lives, etc, etc, etc...
And what does it mean exactly that when the fire hits gasoline, John's first thought was to check on Tim? Does that mean he considers Tim the weakest link? Does it mean he thinks Tim is the most likely to accept his (visible) help? Or could it boil down to the safety of knowing that if he's actually seen, Tim is probably the only person here who would recognize him as someone apart from The Joker?
The Joker-- that's here. Not his Joker. But... hm, maybe also his Joker?
Anyway.
How many is a Few, anyway? Three? Let's say three? Three goons sauntering towards Tim all suddenly lose their Big Dick Energy, each erupting in a shrill shriek one after the other as a jagged knife in the shape of a curved grin is suddenly lodged into each of their shoulders. The murderous automatic riffle gets dropped, along with a metal bat and a heavy rusted chain, as each aggressor loses motor-function over half his arms. They howl and cuss and spin around in time to catch sight of a (stylishly) tattered coattail flaring amid a dicey dodge. There's the briefest glimpse of a silhouette-- not Batman, not really-- but there's an odd, off-alikeness. Joker's coat is cut like Batman's cape; the twin spikes of his hair are not so different from Batman's spiked cowl. The knives in their backs probably feel enough like batarangs.
The mounting chaos sends some sucker surging towards the secretly strung hostage's-- but he doesn't reach them, either. There's just another pained shriek above the sinister crackling of electricity.
'Is that The Joker--?!
Why is he attacking us--?!
I dunno man JUST shoot him?!
Are you FUCKING CRAZY?!
Hey hey hey I work for you every other Tuesday stop--!'
Just hold on Tim. Couple more seconds, tops. He's coming, really, pay no attention to the truly unsettling laughter undercutting all those screams. Aaaany second now...
And then suddenly he's there, John Doe in his Joker's guise, dipping his toes into Wonderland whilst trying not to go as mad as the last time. He'd been working his way up to the entire look-- the hair style, the not-quite-a-domino-mask face paint, the unmistakable blood colored lips on impossibly flawless white skin. The threads, and the toys. This time would be different; he wouldn't smother John Doe with The Joker, this time, they would both keep a hand on the wheel. What could possibly go wrong?
He stands on the barest lip of the ledge like he's unafraid of falling; a pending storm tosses a brutally strong gust across the expansive balcony (a few hostages teeter and tremble), flaring Joker's coat not unlike a certain dramatic black cape.
He looks... far too at ease, on the edge of a fatal fall, covered in all that blood. But don't all of Bruce's friends end up accustomed to washing out bloodstains? ]
Look at all that fancy rope work; who knew that was going to come in handy outside the bedroom?
[ To John's credit, he has no idea Tim's stamina bar is just about depleted. Robin could mention it-- or, he could mention the dude with a taser (and a death wish, apparently) charging his smug rescuer's back. John what do you mean you didn't take down ALL the goons before you started grinning at your bat-adjacent-crush are you kidding me right now...]
[The screams aren't lost on Tim, but also, they sound distinctly like screams of alarm coming from the center of the rooftop and not like voices losing altitude-- in other words, like the bad guys had taken the hit, not the hostages.
So, he finishes securing a single anchor point via a carabiner for the final hostage, and loops the wire rope to their hands, belt, and the carabiner. He manages all that and begins, entire weight hanging on his fingertips and the tips of his toes, to start shimming to the side of the ledge.
This should be the part where he pops over the lip and does damage, giving his muscles just one more burst before a rest.
Instead, he looks up, and sees two things at once.
One: Speaking to him, The Joker, but not the Joker-- but enough like the Joker to make one of his hands slip in dread surprise, that red lipstick catching the searchlights wetly and making his heart lurch in practiced panic. Blood, too. A lot of blood. This can't all be a Joker ploy beneath the surface, can it?
No, it can't, and this is John, and Tim gets that in the split-second it takes him to notice the other thing.
The Freak with the Mohawk, wearing neon leather, coming at John with a taser sparking.
Tim only has one hand to work with in that moment. Still, he swings his lower body upwards, using his core to propel himself over the lip of the edge and into the man. He hits him with enough momentum to pause his lumbering towards John, but he didn't have enough of a grip to knock him fully over-- or to knock the taser free of his hand.
A pinch hit for a pinch hit. He'd rescued John for rescuing him, but now he was on all fours before a brute he'd just tumbled into, arms screaming from the prolonged hostage effort, winded by the jump and by another brutal gust across this building's lofty skytop veranda.]
[ He moves with eerie rag-doll fluidity, shifting to the side ( leaving room for Robin's lunge) and spinning on his heel to face his aggressor's front and his rescuer's back at once; the next second, having noted and processed the graceful save, the failed vigilante steps over his downed impromptu partner with ease, and stakes himself directly between Robin and the attacker.
It must be an odd tableaux for... everyone involved.
Not enough to make Mr. Neon Leather hesitate too long, though. The crackle of that taser connecting to John's ribs only steels the killer clown's curiously protective stance and stirs up a frightful, gleefully machoistic cackle. Please, a typical taser has got zilch on a bat-stunner turned to maximum voltage. Hell, it's barely even a party unless someone whips out the sparklers!
It's a vicious skull-bash that sends Pink Mohawk stumbling backwards, sputtering and coughing with blood gushing down his shattered nose. ]
RUDE! How dare you RUIN my FLAWLESS rescue! Can't you see I'm trying to make an impression here?
[ You're good, right Robin? On the roof proper? Just take a second to catch your breath before--
And the fucking wind knocks down a teetering hostage. That's fine though, right? They're secured, they're all secured, that cord will totally hold.
... Maybe not the actual concrete of the building that the anchor is jammed into, though. Gotham construction and all. Tiny hair-line fractures start to slither through the cement around the anchor of that safety cord, so it's a good thing it's only got to hold the wait of one--
And a Freak in blue fishnets just booted another (secretly secured) civilian off the roof. Grand. ]
[From all fours, Tim looks up in a kind of bewildered wonderment, straddling impressed and concerned, as John took the voltage to his rib cage and... quipped in return? Wow, Nightwing would be proud.]
Thanks.
[He managed, mostly sure the chuckling clown was on his side, his own voice breathy and carried off by the wind.
He'd started to plant a palm into the ground to get himself upright when that same wind carried to his ears not one, but two sets of screams.
He saw the blank spot where a hostage should have been, then the other go overboard. In a flash, his bo staff was out, and he'd use it to flip himself towards the Freak who'd shoved them, twirling it to nail them in the back of the head to knock them out, then catching it into their shirt hem to tug them back towards himself and to keep them from spilling over the building side like their unwitting victims. Turning to John, he'd call over a shoulder--]
Get the other hostages onto the floor, and get the bindings off them so they can run!
[And with that order given-- and maybe even it would be followed?-- he'd go to haul the person who'd fallen second back up over the lip of the building. Then, he'd move deftly to go help with the first...
And that's when things would go very sideways. Literally.
He'd get to bracing himself over the lip when the wall would begin to crumble under their shared weight in combination with the metal splint. Eyes going wide, he'd rush to grab the man about to be in free fall, hauling him back up. But the force it took with his much slighter body to get the much larger man back up would tip Tim off balance-- and he'd have just gotten the man to safety as the ground beneath him would fracture just a little too much and he would go spilling over the side of the building.
Which would have been fine-- he could just grapple, right?
So it was awkward when the carabiner, still jutting, nipped onto the utility belt as he fell, sending Tim backwards before down. He'd hit the back of his head on the wall, hard, and it sent him into enough of a daze that his reaction time would likely be too slow to grapple.
They'd sure find out, because he was about to fall, belt slipping from the sideways metal piece.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Look, since you're apparently a Junior, C-rank stalker, I'll just tell you who my best friend is, since it's extremely public knowledge, and you can like-- Google him. And see that the 'rippling muscles' comment is less about 'iya~ I have such a massive crush on this strapping young gentleman!' and more about 'literally, where does he even fit his organs, he's so buff???'
Conner Luthor.
[Conner Luthor would seem like a fitting best friend for Timothy Drake; two fanatically rich kids, attached to tech corps.
That his name was actually Conner Kent and he was half-cloned from Superman's DNA? That, the reporters hadn't sniffed onto yet. Clark and Lois saw to that. So, he was just Lex's flashy Metropolis son; all sunglasses indoors, rockstar leather, and trysts at galas.
Tim would drum his fingers on the table.]
Did you really just make a 'the Nile'/denial joke? Jeez. You're worse than my eldest brother.
[And by John's bestie, did he mean... Bruce? Shuddering inwardly at the idea of having two dads in quite this manner-- much less having one of them in his kitchen flirting with him.
Not that, uh, the Batfamily didn't have certain... overtones to begin with, but that's a story for people on invitation-only.]
So how did telling your 'bestie' about being in love with him go, if you're speaking from experience?
[The tables, let him turn them on you while he nibbles on a lemon square.]
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[ John does in fact pull out his cell phone, and run the name through google. ]
I see, I see! Love the aesthetic-- he looks like he could break a guy in half! Maybe if you really ARN'T interested, I should stick him on my 'To Be Stalked' list...
[ This is absolutely Tim Bait, but who knows, even brilliant men walk into idiot traps when they're feeling especially endeared to someone. John is generally ridiculous enough, and sounds like he's seriously considering the idea, that the odds break even on if he's pulling Tim's leg or not. He browses a few articles on his phone, rapidly absorbing the media that flows across his little square screen. Another rich kid, huh? Does every Bat-adjacent-side-kick have the same type or what? John ignores the criticism to his joke-- some people just have no taste, he can't help that.
His exuberance flickers at Tim's question, though. For a second he glances away, mired in a fathomless uncertainty and-- regret? But his mind has mechanics for protecting itself; his hazy, unhinged grin slides back into place and he sighs almost wistfully, unhooking the cuff of his shirt and rolling back his sleeve.
He shows Tim the scar straight through his palm again and also, the whisper-light remnants of surgery incisions down to his elbow and spanning beyond it; his arm had been broken (in at least two places) badly enough to requite metal pins and bars to aid the repair. ]
Oh, HUGE fight-- but it was really, really complicated. Turned out just great in the end, because he said we're still friends! But... I did go a little crazy on him. Because I was jealous. Because I was not being honest with myself about how I wanted him to feel about me.
[ John drains the rest of his warm ice tea with a deliberate, pointed look angled right at Tim as he does. ]
Dating friends is high risk, high reward Shorty. I can tell you all about that.
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[Tim doesn't sway off-topic now. He isn't worried about confessing to Conner; Conner would sleep with anything that moved, emphasis on 'thing'. Gender didn't even come into it. He loved being loved, and that was that. The worst complication that would come from telling Conner he had a crush on him-- which he did! not! have!!!-- would be dealing with Conner's ego about it forever and ever onwards.
Tim slides a foot onto his chair, pressing his chin to his knee, watching John carefully, gauging his reactions, memorizing his expressions as he spoke... and popping the rest of the lemon bar into his mouth, hooking sticky fingers in after and popping them off clean.]
Just friends means it didn't end up where you wanted it?
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High risk, high reward, like John said. ]
WELL... I didn't exactly... give him a chance to say much after I told him [ what with all the stabbing and attempting to kill people. John draws up his legs, tucking his heels onto the seat right in front of his butt and twining his arms around his jagged knees. ]
I did mention I went a little crazy, right? Well... maybe it was a lot crazy. But-- after? When we were done going at it, when neither of us could move, when we were actually talking before we passed out... [ HE'S TALKING ABOUT FIGHTING. HE'S TALKING ABOUT FIGHTING. DEAR GOD JOHN. ] I asked him if he ever considered me a real friend. Like, someone he really cares about... and he said yes.
[ The small curl at the corner of his mouth is barely a smile; he actually looks (actually feels) genuinely sad. Maybe he's not exactly remorseful he killed three people, but he's sad he disappointed his friend. That's an extremely unique anomaly among the canon multiverse, here. ]
So... I'm pretty sure, even after that HUGE fight, we're... okay? He even came to see me after a while, in person-- right to my door! I wish I could tell you what he was gunna say... but I got uh-- transferred here. Before we could talk. I can't... think about it to much. He's where he is, I'm where I am, makes my teeth itch...
... Which is basically my point. Even when things go Not Terribly... it's still way too easy to lose your head over the guy you love, and end up stuck somewhere in limbo. Especially for... you know... Rich Kids [ he doesn't actually mime the air quotations, but they sound clearly in his tone.
Apparently amid all this atypical honestly something in John's mind craved a familiar mechanic and ticked over to the command, 'mimic'. So just like Tim, he takes a rather generous chomp of a lemon square--
And then his eyes widen in sheer food-horror as he realizes his mistake.
Arkhman lemon squares are propably made with like. Paste. And not real lemon curd cured off the tits of a lemon goddess, or whatever the hell this stuff is. It. is. so. SOUR!!
John clamps one hand over his mouth, stifling the urge to spit out the offensive snack; his free hand balls into a fist and he keeps striking the table, groaning in distress as the flavor continues to hijack his sheltered taste-buds. John goes for his tea-- but he already finished that!
His eyes shoot to Tim with a look of almost desperate pleading. He needs
an adultsome assistance here; it doesn't take course on manners to realize spitting on your host is rude. There are napkins right--?? But are they those fabric, re-washable kind? Are you even allowed to spit into those?? ]no subject
He would have had a remark to proffer to all that, likely even a clever or empathetic one, but then his brows are shooting up as he watches John... die? Literally die??? What is going on?]
Oh no, are you allergic...? It has gluten-- the dairy isn't an issue, right? Um--
[Getting up, to go pour him a tall glass of water.]
Do you need a Benadryl?
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Oh my god... that was so, so sour... I think I might have actually died...
[ He actually did not mean to punctuate all that honesty with such a possibly endearing little interruption. ]
Seriously... I can't taste my tongue... why would people eat that like, willingly?
[ It's more clinical curiosity than actual offense; John has some pretty strange tastes himself, after all. ]
... I'm fine, though. Good, even. I'm good. Thanks for uh... worrying about me.
[ His wilted leaning against the immaculate counter naturally shifts to him sitting up on it. A long tired sigh rolls out of him and he leans back on his elbows, knees hooked on the lip of the counter as he observes Tim with open curiosity. ]
You know... I was trying pretty hard to play Devil's Advocate there-- bust your chops, like how friends do-- and you just... ignored all that the second you thought I needed help-- and I do, by the way, the emotional damage from that lemon Thing is... wow, I think I'm gunna need weeks and weeks of therapy.
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[He reminded. As if, wasn't it obvious?, in a house with a Real English Butler, the lemon squares would be pure curd with just a bit of shortbread bottom and powdered sugar top, puckered to perfection, sourness enough but not to make any hearty member of Her Majesty's Army even flutter lashes at it.
Seriously, was this man truly just a Junior Stalker? He didn't realize Alfred Pennyworth ran this house, and Americanism be damned, you cooked things with full fat butter and very little sugar?
And Meyer Lemons?
...And hadn't this guy already done therapy??]
Well, yeah, I wasn't going to let you sit there and suffer just because you teased me. That would be mean-spirited. You're a guest. Although--
[He'd go to pull the arm of the sleeve up, checking his watch. Alfred might be back soon with the groceries.]
It's getting late; we should probably vacate the kitchen. Least another lemon bar decide to make a second attempt on your life.
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Right, right. It'd be a total red flag if you wanted to introduce me to your family, so soon!
[ John hops off the counter, fully expecting to be (and perhaps, prepared to also ignore) asked to leave, but that isn't exactly what Tim says; he just wants John out of the kitchen, and there's a whole lot around other than Kitchen. ]
UHG don't remind me! LEAST favorite thing I've ever had to swallow, hands down! And speaking of swallowing, if you WANT me to leave so you can go think about Connor's muscles, just say so, jeez...
[ It's a little bit of reverse psychology; John doesn't even mean to manipulate exactly; he's just intelligent enough to understand the relation between the cause of effect of his statement. Tim wanting to prove he's not in love with Connor (yeah, right) might just nudge him into hanging around with John a little longer. John wouldn't mind that.
He's just a touch starved for healthy companionship. A bit. ]
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Why would he... be introducing him to his family... at all, ever??
Tim would dust off his hands and begin to lead the way out, leaving the mess behind him, still in its half-eaten bedlam. Alfred ran a thin line between teaching his boys to be helpful and responsible, and sequestering some jobs as his and his alone, and sometimes that changed as the wind blew. But with the china, it was almost always all Alfred. Plus the discarded leaves would help him mentally calculate what was left in the tin, and Tim knew that allowed him to fashion his timelines for new orders. They couldn't be without tea. Plus, he was overly fussy of any of them when they were busy, and with Tim going between Gotham and Blüdhaven and having given up his Genius Grant to Ivy University to do so, he'd been particularly coddling lately.
Tim is so lost in his own over-think about cleaning up that he trip a little on the lip of the doorframe out when Conner's name is brought up again.]
What? No!! What, do you have a crush on him?! You bring him up enough!
[Red. Again. He really does put the red in Red Robin, huh??
And in the context of swallowing-!!...]
Gah, no, no, and no! I'm not going to go use up a tissue box alone in my room thinking about Conner's muscles thank you VERY much! I just have work to do! I'm going to think about work, not getting worked up. I only just came out, I feel like if he wanted to put something in, he'd have let me know.
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You REALLY need to convince me that's true, huh? But look how flustered you are! Red, red, red... like a cute little cherry bomb~
[ He wonders behind Tim, keeping close to his host more than paying any mind to his proximity to the door. His teasing throaty chuckles follow a rather rough pinch to Tim's cheek-- not hard enough to bruise, but certainly enough to darken the color on his face. It's a kind of brutal friendliness, like a slap on the shoulder, superficial pain and botheration as a token of endearment.
The way his hand lingers for three beats of the heart, thumb curiously tracing that flushed shadow of his pinch, is something else. ]
Hm, yeah, I dunno... maybe you're not the only one in that gator infested river?
[ He's standing close again, looming above Tim with one hip slightly cocked and his hands slung casually on his own belt. He starts to giggle briefly-- and then hum the musical tune accompanying the common teasing jingle, 'Tim and Connor, sitting in a tree...'
He swaps to playfully mocking whistling for the next bit, pale lips pursed, tipping his head back and forth and slinking a sliver closer with each note and letter, 'K-I-S-S-I-N-G'~
Does it happen to seem like John might try to steal a kiss? He doesn't... he just lingers at %90, allows the idea that he might... and then abruptly blows a quick raspberry against Tim's cheek, and flings himself back in a fit of utterly manic giggles.
... How many sugars had he put in his tea? Too many, evidentially. ]
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He can't react too fast. He can't be too obvious. And even if he'd been capable of that, Boy Wonder that he Boy-oh-Boy Was, Tim's own sheepishness rendered it impossible the moment those long fingers had his cheek in their grip. He'd flatten against the near wall like he'd seen something that bone-frightened him, his breathing immediately irregular, his cheek indeed swelling with a more indignant red-brown, his brow furrowing in horror at the song, his heart rate up--...
Don't take it personally, John. He's always been terrible at this. Flinched away from his own girlfriends, hid his face behind his hands for boys he had a crush on, groaned and beggared off of most forms of flirting. He was slick and confident when there wasn't a remote chance of anything happening; the second a kiss was even being referenced? Well, there was a reason he was the only Robin who could ride a unicorn. Reserved for the pure, as they were...
Tim stays still and pressed against the wall for the whole of it, fingers splayed against the wood, looking like his soul has left his body when the onslaught of teasing ends in peels of laughter.
He feels faint.]
...I hate to see what you do for the 'baby carriage' part...
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So, yeah, he's enjoying watching Tim squirm, beyond the obvious sadist's gratification. ]
Ohho, is that a challenge? Shall I get creative?
[ Playing up the act, John waggles his eyebrows rests his arm against the wall over Tim's head, adopting a classic cheesy pick-up posture from that old movie where they sing about a sex-wagon or something. He tips his jaw to make the point of his gaze obvious as he looks his host from face to toes and back again. Slowly. ]
Come on Shorty, if you can't handle me pulling your leg, how're you ever gunna manage when your cutie-pie Konkon pulls both of them? You know-- apart? Making yourself a really, really easy mark here...
[ He 'walks' a pair of his long pale fingers up the air just in front of Tim, not quite actually touching, from his navel to nose. ]
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It's a terrible blend of elements come together in this blizzard that is now a cacophony between his ears. And here is the concoction, boiled down to its elements:
1. Tim hasn't been out long. Male attention, something that's been a long, low craving sitting just under his skin, has been so ignored until now as a desire that there's something of a starvation for it. Any positive, queer attention is, well... flattering, and catches his attention like a jolt to every nerve endings, whether the person was his type or not. He was new, and the newness was painfully acute.
2. The implications, the wordplay. Tim has an incredibly visual brain -- a neural network like a web, that connects everything he's ever seen, smelled, touched together and blends it into the current reality, making him such a keenly-minded detective... so when John says things, he can see their outlines dance frenetic across his gray matter, and when his body doesn't quite complete the circuit, Tim still feels it like it has; the ghost of fingers walking, he knows exactly what each poke would do sensorially, just like that cheek pull was enough to blur the lines between the hot of blood rushing to it and the hot of breath against it.
3. The danger. They're all danger junkies in the bat family, though Tim unrelentingly the least so. Still, there's something jump-scare about having an alternate universe version of the Joker flirt with you. Or, as science explained it: what happens when you feel fear, rage, or attraction is your sympathetic nervous system activates, and then you have to attribute that sensation to something in your environment. So the Joker, poking at him, daring the space between them, punctuating it so harshly? It wasn't that dissimilar from attraction, simply because Tim was so tuned into it, and the frequency was 'wary'.
The end result was that he met his eye and didn't... say anything. Couldn't seem to find the will to, tongue heavy, brow fretted, expression... baffled, quite frankly.
He should tell this guy to get lost now. He didn't love being teased, and this was an uneasy kind of a thing for someone he'd just met to be doing. But he fumbled the words 'get lost' and found himself... just... staring.
It really didn't help his situation, to think of Conner pulling his legs-- anyone's legs-- apart.
But surely the jester had had his fun and would now back off enough to let him breathe, and remind him the very next words out of his mouth needed to be the directions to the door. He'd flounder until John confirmed he was done toying, because he didn't know what else to do but flounder, because he'd never had a man stand this close and talk about sex, to put it bluntly, and he didn't know what to do with that other than straddle the blur between wanting to hear more and wanting to hear less.]
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Good. John likes him that way, with a severity that mildly surprises him. Without the softer side of his persona, the clever and craven clown could and would keep pushing the envelope; cravings alerted to the conflict in those hunky blue eyes, baited by the deep blush staining the 'secret' Robin red in the face. Joker can be a lurid brute; different circumstances would have had him putting on a show of pinning Harley to Bruce's table in front of him, and that potential is hushed, not dead. His expression gets undeniably hungry and his smile gets sharp, dangerous.
But he only lingers another three heart beats. Then a long over-dramatic sigh leaves him and he pushes off the wall, giving Tim a couple feet of empty space to breathe. ]
You're hopeless, hopeless! You wanna know how I know? Because I was just as hopeless. I know the look. Clearly you need some alone time to cool down... so I will graciously leave you to your... work stuff.
But first. You know you're... pretty neat to hang out with? I had fun, even though the lemon Thing almost killed me and-- and think you're pretty cool people so... can I take a picture? Of us? For my phone?... Please?
[ It's progress enough for John that he thought to ask, opposed to just grabbing Tim and taking the shot. The fact that he (or He) wanted to grab Tim so badly (for a photo, for other things) actually prompted him to veer the opposite way and ask.
Stop being creepy.
Look who you're talking to, buddy.
Tim doesn't exactly have to agree, either. But it would certainly smooth the process of John leaving, probably? ]
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And then, mercifully, it's over, and he's promising to leave. Better, he's giving Tim space, which allows the young man to regain himself as a person, and not as something on display that is gawking back, imagination running a little too deep and vivid, tripping over what ifs?
Tim clears his throat, rubs his knuckles over his tinge-bruised cheek, letting it skirt away the previous feeling of nearness. One he usually likes, but must, must not like from the wrong people. Get it together, Tim. Be logical. He'd always been such a sucker for people who veered into physical teasing; it winded him.]
...thanks... you remember your way to the door, right?
[So close, no cigar...]
A photo? [He squints, grabbing his arm in a soft grip, flexing his fingers sweetly, as if grounding himself to himself.
A photo is a bad idea. It makes it look like they're friends; it could be misused in so many, many ways. He could thing of five off the top of his head, with no effort at all.
It seems cruel in a way to say no after someone hand-delivers a gift you are literally wearing, but...]
I can't do photos. Family policy. Too many people willing to buy them off of you or just straight-up jack your account. We don't really do personal pictures. Sorry.
[Nothing for John to sell, or photoshop, or post online, or moon over tonight while he did 'work stuff'. No fodder.
Tim couldn't let a photo happen, even if his reasoning was a little white lie. His own phone's camera reel had plenty with his found family; but then, they were his family, and this? This was an outsider.]
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But he conceded Tim some room to breathe already; was that kindness, or another carefully positioned pawn piece? A recession aimed only to plant the seed of a thought? Who can say? Certainly not John himself. ]
I do in fact remember precisely the way to your front door, yes.
[ He leans back into his joking-not-joking stalker jest at Tim's initial comment-- but his (objectively rather gentle) refusal is like the gun that starts a race between several rival emotions ripping up John's expression. The looks pass like traded slides, blinking back and forth-- he looks briefly seething, he even starts to tremble as his brows knit harshly down over his acid-glare--
And then suddenly he looks completely heartbroken, wilting at the shoulders and drawing into himself like he'd been struck across the face, like the sadness is literally crippling him.
A slivered second later, his shoulders roll through a languid shrug and he's smiling again, casual as can be. ]
Oh, that's okay. I already pocketed the pictures of you from the paper, not like I have nothing for the photo wall.
[ Maybe he won't ask, next time. At least he thought to, this time. John relents another sigh and spins on his heels, showing Tim him back for the first time in this encounter.
The gun decals he scalped off Tim's new jacket, have been lovingly stitched to the back of Tim's old jacket; the band's insignia split between the garments like a spin off those matching BFF necklaces that fit together like puzzle pieces. ]
Bye Short King Tim... I'll definitely keep in touch~
[ a bold statement that would probably amount to actual bullshit off the lips of someone not actually asking for Tim's contact info. John's just smart enough that he doesn't need to ask. He feels like he can find Tim (or Robin) when his fancy strikes, and he's not exactly wrong. ]
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And he was right; he would get his "selfie" from the gossip rags the next day, headlines the likes of CLOWN PRINCE OF CRIME GIVES DRAKE-WAYNE A PROM-POSAL? and DID THE JOKER JUST PAY THE WAYNES A SOCIAL CALL??? VILLAINOUS LOOK-ALIKE COMES A'CALLIN'!
And photos, grainy and blurred, but real-- of the two of them on the doorstep together, just inches apart-- graced glossy pages and inky papers.
Beyond that though, when there were no further house calls or calamities, Tim kept mum about the meetings, hoped time corrected itself and sent the man back to his own universe, and filed John away. It was far from the first one-off oddity he'd run into in Gotham. Similarly, he'd hang the coat John had made for him deep in his closet and wouldn't don it again since the time in the kitchen John had last buckled him into it, the memory of that grip and tug a little too sharp for his liking.
He went back to his daily grind.
But something... had shifted. He began to notice that on missions it was almost like someone was... watching him? Like a benevolent guardian angel, but one he couldn't prove. He'd get schematics on a place, and find an unruly vent he would have had trouble with... already off his hinges for him. Or would go to disarm a weapon and-- it was already rendered harmless? Or he'd have sworn he tripped that alarm with a stray elbow... but no alarm went off.
All things that totally could happen. Bad construction, faulty wiring, someone forgetting to set the security system to "on". ...But this many times in a row?
He was getting into less scuffs and fewer near-misses lately than ever.
That was, until this mission. Freaks all over Gotham had taken hostages in banks and hotels and were partying it up, unafraid of the GCPD, looting to their heart's content. Damian had gone to free a bank. Dick had come in special to help with the Museum of Antiquities. Bruce had gone to secure the Stock Exchange. That left Tim to deal with the Orchard Hotel, ritzy as it was.
One problem? The hotel had a penthouse with a huge balcony. Palattial. And the Freaks had people tied up and lined along its edges in the high wind, ready to push overboard in a juiced fury if they spotted a vigilante or a cop. Tim had been going around the outer edge of the perimeter of the ledge and safety fastening hostages to its underside with wire rope and grips, so that if they fell, it wasn't far. He had to secure the people before he could take on the painted, punkish gang members.
One problem. Well, two.
One, someone he had gone to secure had gasped loudly and made it obvious they were relieved to see help. In their panic, they accidentally signaled to the Freaks that he was there.
Two, he'd been hanging off this ledge and securing hostages for half an hour now-- his arms were sore-tired to the point of giving out.
And he only had to secure this one, last person. But that was about to get tricky as a few Freaks headed over, weapons in hand, whooping that they planned to send a little bird flying.]
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So that tickles his fancy for a bit. Then he starts to get bored. A boredom that might be contributed to by the fact that he is uh... technically homeless oops? He can scope out spots, yeah, rig some lights, sure... but no where cozy. Homey.
So sooner rather than later, John starts to get antsy. The lack of home base is counterbalanced by the sheer volume of food for his hyperfixation; Batman does indeed have a family here, a variety of succeeding sidekicks for John to stalk--STUDY, for John to study-- aside from keeping some level of tabs on Tim, figuring out who this 'Connor Luthor' person is, and obviously devoting a decent amount of time to following Batman-- Oh, John barely notices the crippling lack of social supports for displaced people!
He notices a little more when some random gang decides to try and take over the city on a rather grandiose, but ultimately impossible scale. It's like these guys never played Risk or anything, damn. Over-armed, under-intelligent meat-bags.
Really, their lack of finesse is fucking insulting.
I mean-- oh no, people in peril, must save innocent lives, etc, etc, etc...
And what does it mean exactly that when the fire hits gasoline, John's first thought was to check on Tim? Does that mean he considers Tim the weakest link? Does it mean he thinks Tim is the most likely to accept his (visible) help? Or could it boil down to the safety of knowing that if he's actually seen, Tim is probably the only person here who would recognize him as someone apart from The Joker?
The Joker-- that's here. Not his Joker. But... hm, maybe also his Joker?
Anyway.
How many is a Few, anyway? Three? Let's say three? Three goons sauntering towards Tim all suddenly lose their Big Dick Energy, each erupting in a shrill shriek one after the other as a jagged knife in the shape of a curved grin is suddenly lodged into each of their shoulders. The murderous automatic riffle gets dropped, along with a metal bat and a heavy rusted chain, as each aggressor loses motor-function over half his arms. They howl and cuss and spin around in time to catch sight of a (stylishly) tattered coattail flaring amid a dicey dodge. There's the briefest glimpse of a silhouette-- not Batman, not really-- but there's an odd, off-alikeness. Joker's coat is cut like Batman's cape; the twin spikes of his hair are not so different from Batman's spiked cowl. The knives in their backs probably feel enough like batarangs.
The mounting chaos sends some sucker surging towards the secretly strung hostage's-- but he doesn't reach them, either. There's just another pained shriek above the sinister crackling of electricity.
'Is that The Joker--?!
Why is he attacking us--?!
I dunno man JUST shoot him?!
Are you FUCKING CRAZY?!
Hey hey hey I work for you every other Tuesday stop--!'
Just hold on Tim. Couple more seconds, tops. He's coming, really, pay no attention to the truly unsettling laughter undercutting all those screams. Aaaany second now...
And then suddenly he's there, John Doe in his Joker's guise, dipping his toes into Wonderland whilst trying not to go as mad as the last time. He'd been working his way up to the entire look-- the hair style, the not-quite-a-domino-mask face paint, the unmistakable blood colored lips on impossibly flawless white skin. The threads, and the toys. This time would be different; he wouldn't smother John Doe with The Joker, this time, they would both keep a hand on the wheel. What could possibly go wrong?
He stands on the barest lip of the ledge like he's unafraid of falling; a pending storm tosses a brutally strong gust across the expansive balcony (a few hostages teeter and tremble), flaring Joker's coat not unlike a certain dramatic black cape.
He looks... far too at ease, on the edge of a fatal fall, covered in all that blood. But don't all of Bruce's friends end up accustomed to washing out bloodstains? ]
Look at all that fancy rope work; who knew that was going to come in handy outside the bedroom?
[ To John's credit, he has no idea Tim's stamina bar is just about depleted. Robin could mention it-- or, he could mention the dude with a taser (and a death wish, apparently) charging his smug rescuer's back. John what do you mean you didn't take down ALL the goons before you started grinning at your bat-adjacent-crush are you kidding me right now...]
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So, he finishes securing a single anchor point via a carabiner for the final hostage, and loops the wire rope to their hands, belt, and the carabiner. He manages all that and begins, entire weight hanging on his fingertips and the tips of his toes, to start shimming to the side of the ledge.
This should be the part where he pops over the lip and does damage, giving his muscles just one more burst before a rest.
Instead, he looks up, and sees two things at once.
One: Speaking to him, The Joker, but not the Joker-- but enough like the Joker to make one of his hands slip in dread surprise, that red lipstick catching the searchlights wetly and making his heart lurch in practiced panic. Blood, too. A lot of blood. This can't all be a Joker ploy beneath the surface, can it?
No, it can't, and this is John, and Tim gets that in the split-second it takes him to notice the other thing.
The Freak with the Mohawk, wearing neon leather, coming at John with a taser sparking.
Tim only has one hand to work with in that moment. Still, he swings his lower body upwards, using his core to propel himself over the lip of the edge and into the man. He hits him with enough momentum to pause his lumbering towards John, but he didn't have enough of a grip to knock him fully over-- or to knock the taser free of his hand.
A pinch hit for a pinch hit. He'd rescued John for rescuing him, but now he was on all fours before a brute he'd just tumbled into, arms screaming from the prolonged hostage effort, winded by the jump and by another brutal gust across this building's lofty skytop veranda.]
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It must be an odd tableaux for... everyone involved.
Not enough to make Mr. Neon Leather hesitate too long, though. The crackle of that taser connecting to John's ribs only steels the killer clown's curiously protective stance and stirs up a frightful, gleefully machoistic cackle. Please, a typical taser has got zilch on a bat-stunner turned to maximum voltage. Hell, it's barely even a party unless someone whips out the sparklers!
It's a vicious skull-bash that sends Pink Mohawk stumbling backwards, sputtering and coughing with blood gushing down his shattered nose. ]
RUDE! How dare you RUIN my FLAWLESS rescue! Can't you see I'm trying to make an impression here?
[ You're good, right Robin? On the roof proper? Just take a second to catch your breath before--
And the fucking wind knocks down a teetering hostage. That's fine though, right? They're secured, they're all secured, that cord will totally hold.
... Maybe not the actual concrete of the building that the anchor is jammed into, though. Gotham construction and all. Tiny hair-line fractures start to slither through the cement around the anchor of that safety cord, so it's a good thing it's only got to hold the wait of one--
And a Freak in blue fishnets just booted another (secretly secured) civilian off the roof. Grand. ]
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Thanks.
[He managed, mostly sure the chuckling clown was on his side, his own voice breathy and carried off by the wind.
He'd started to plant a palm into the ground to get himself upright when that same wind carried to his ears not one, but two sets of screams.
He saw the blank spot where a hostage should have been, then the other go overboard. In a flash, his bo staff was out, and he'd use it to flip himself towards the Freak who'd shoved them, twirling it to nail them in the back of the head to knock them out, then catching it into their shirt hem to tug them back towards himself and to keep them from spilling over the building side like their unwitting victims. Turning to John, he'd call over a shoulder--]
Get the other hostages onto the floor, and get the bindings off them so they can run!
[And with that order given-- and maybe even it would be followed?-- he'd go to haul the person who'd fallen second back up over the lip of the building. Then, he'd move deftly to go help with the first...
And that's when things would go very sideways. Literally.
He'd get to bracing himself over the lip when the wall would begin to crumble under their shared weight in combination with the metal splint. Eyes going wide, he'd rush to grab the man about to be in free fall, hauling him back up. But the force it took with his much slighter body to get the much larger man back up would tip Tim off balance-- and he'd have just gotten the man to safety as the ground beneath him would fracture just a little too much and he would go spilling over the side of the building.
Which would have been fine-- he could just grapple, right?
So it was awkward when the carabiner, still jutting, nipped onto the utility belt as he fell, sending Tim backwards before down. He'd hit the back of his head on the wall, hard, and it sent him into enough of a daze that his reaction time would likely be too slow to grapple.
They'd sure find out, because he was about to fall, belt slipping from the sideways metal piece.]
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