[Would you look at that, Mr. Arroyo: it's the number of a burner phone. Working in ADI's information technology department, pouring his everything into being a diligent study despite the brain-rotting, mundane nine-to-five? It has its perks.
Members' profiles and personal numbers? He'd had a certain few memorized since Week One.]
it looks like you're up to bat. When would you use lethal force?
[Gil stares intently at his phone, thoughts straying to that monster he and Malcolm encountered, the beach with the kelpies and how many he shot, his intense desire and attempt to shoot Martin Whitly, hallucination though he was.
When: too often, lately. Gil rubs his face with one hand, takes a deep breath, sighs. Then, with a quirk of irony on his lips:]
[Well it's been three weeks, more or less, since the bones in his fingers snapped. Less than three weeks since his mid ribs did. The bruising has faded and all in all, Tim might just look more put together than he had previously. Smart layers of clothing hide a stiff posture and he's removed a cast from his hand, now opting for thin gloves to remind himself to not... move it so much.
It works.
He's kept his head down. Since...
It works.
And now he's knocking on the door of C3 with his good hand, aware that Arroyo has been in for a few minutes. The old man can work a phone and Tim can too but some things are better done in person. Feeling cold anxiety swell inside him, Tim figures this is one of those things.]
Gil answers the door, a book held in one hand with a finger marking his page. He's got reading glasses on.
When he sees it's Tim at the door, he's briefly surprised, but only briefly. (The fist-pumping over baby steps in domesticating the feral child is internal.)
It's weird, is what it is. To see a man so casually and comfortably... off-guard. He can't hitch his breath- it would hurt, but he exhales slowly. Tim's lips part in a panicked, belated dawning that that isn't what he ever wanted for himself, expression otherwise trained to something kin to nothingness.
His eyes track to Gil's hip, left or right or wherever he's certain he's seen the guy holster that gun. It would be a blink-and-miss movement that would be incredibly hard to hide. Tim doesn't even try. Whether the glock is there or not...
This isn't about him.
Tim shakes his head. Refuses to budge. His problem-- one of the many-- is that he'd been too eager to accept invitations like that. It would seem harmless, right? God, it's really not. "This is private," he ventures, unsure of his own excuse and how it will land but he continues stronger. "It concerns Malcolm."
Unfortunately, Gil didn't blink. But Tim's attention to his lack of gun gets immediately shelved for later when Tim speaks.
He glances back over his shoulder, then looks at Tim, torn for a moment.
Then he just nods, waving the book vaguely in the direction of the apartment. "I'll be right out. Sure you don't want to wait inside while I grab my shoes?"
"It shouldn't be long," he responds, automatic and half like he was expecting Gil to follow up with that. It is cold, even by New Englander standards, and every bite of air in his lungs is a horrid thing. The bite of forgetting to hold his hand lightly off his body to avoid it jostling is somehow more bearable.
There are about a thousand alarm bells going off in Gil's head right now. He gets ready quickly, retrieves his gun and holster, tosses on his heavy coat over the lot. When he rejoins Tim, he keeps walking, heading toward B1. "What's going on?"
The moment there's the sound of footsteps by the door, Tim straightens up again. He's not too interested in putting more weight on his leg than he needs to, though. Having to keep stiff so the burn of broken ribs doesn't engulf him helps. It's a very backwards sort of silver lining.
A man's jacket looks different when put over a holster, even if the intent is concealed carry. At least, it does to a Bat. Gotham is ruthless in teaching a vigilante about that.
And Tim... isn't too interested in the hasty journey. He still hasn't pieced together that it's back to the B unit that they're headed.
He frowns. Realizes he's jealous. Gross. He's gross. There's something so wrong with hating earnest concern; there's something so wrong with him.
"Malcolm dropped his medications," Tim explains. He lists them, one by one, all of them. "He's feeling the side effects. He quit cold turkey as far as I'm concerned."
Which is to say, if the medication is left on the kitchen counter, he knows what count of pills remain in every bottle. Because of course he does.
"I know he didn't tell you. I don't know if he wants anyone to know what he did. But he's not well."
Tim gasps, the strain of stopping on a dime a secret only for himself. He does it without thinking about it too much sometimes, plays Follow The Leader a little too well. A residual wince passes through, the guilt bubbling and churning excitedly in his gut. In the back of his throat.
He shakes his head.
"I don't know."
He should.
But he should have done a lot of things.
Like pull the trigger, way back when, gun against his head.
Hope's an important thing, he had hissed at Malcolm once.
"We don't--" it sounds stupid. Small. He sounds stupid, Tim corrects himself. "We don't talk. I don't know."
He'd gathered from Malcolm that things with Tim were... tense. He'd been looking for a good time to bring it up explicitly, with either of them, but Tim's "we don't talk" shifts that to the top of his priority list.
Right under finding out if Malcolm is okay.
Which is, to his invisible chagrin (and immediate guilt), right under--
"You're hurt." It's not a question. Gil doesn't start walking again. He lifts a hand, hovering it over Tim's arm without touching him. The kid is wired tighter than that grenade Malcolm jumped on, and Gil isn't interested in finding out what happens when he's touched without explicit consent. "How? What happened?"
"Broken fingers, broken ribs," he tallies, his voice growing smaller every count. He pointedly tries to ignore the pull in his leg. "Just a few," he admits. It comes out more like a whine, the whiplash of the moment making him dizzy.
It's fine he mouths at Arroyo, because hover-hand is embarrassing for the both of them and it's not like his neck or shoulders were rocked. Because it's cold. And maybe that'll warm up the cavity that's his chest-- just a touch.
God, he's so
Gil had asked, and that's kind of cool, and he had never wanted to think about
"It's fine."
His eyes are watering, it's not fine.
What the hell happened? Tim has an answer. He doesn't want it. He huffs out a breath of hot air, ignites the shock of pain, and says "It's fine. Come on. It's cold." And Malcolm's waiting. He thinks.
Very, very lightly, Gil lets his hand come to rest on Tim's arm. He won't try to keep contact if the kid jerks away, but he's not going to ignore this, either. He heard that Tim was very involved in what happened with that woman on the network, those people in the warehouse. Gil wanted to talk to him after it happened, but they seemed to miss each other with such convenience that it had to be planned. Any lingering thoughts of taking Tim to task for recklessness get forgotten.
Gently, firmly, Gil repeats the question. "What happened?"
You know what happened, he doesn't say. Like a streetwise cat, he accepts the touch long enough to find and surrender to the impulse of leaning into it. A bit. It's nice. Tim chews at his tongue.
What happened.
"Medical took care of the infection and I'm coming off the antibiotics with their... help."
But he hadn't said anything about the wound in his leg before-- painful but small, and so it had been easily forgotten when it came time to wade through an infestation of putrid things.
What happened is, he'd gotten people killed again, and something's broken in him because he can't...
The silence stretches and Tim's aware the Lieutenant hadn't meant the question Tim had answered.
Tough luck.
He knows his carelessness does that. He knows he ought to be better. It's all Bruce wanted, was for him to do better. Tim had gotten faster, stronger, harder.
Not better, though.
What happened was, God, these weren't even the first people he'd gotten killed. Did you know that? He's not even talking about collateral. A revolting word for human life. But he's not counting that. Direct action. Responsibility. Tim's mouth stays shut, his gaze neither here nor there.
Anyway. He chews his tongue and is back to the present.
He doesn't lean back, move away. But he is solidly rooted to the ground.
"Malcolm should be back at the apartment. If he was out, he should be in by now. He'll want to see you."
It's not the tone that does it for him. It's total lack of intention to leave. Leave. Leave, damn it, just leave him!
"He's hurting himself!"
Or does this man not understand that drug withdrawal
what's he playing at? What's Mr. Arroyo playing at? Tim would like to say he's baffled. He doesn't know what he is anymore, though. He's just hurt, the outburst unwelcome in his body. "What are you doing?"
Whether he asks the man or himself is up in the air.
...things have gotten hectic. That's Tim's excuse any time he wholly forgets something. It's a good excuse, because things have, in fact, been diabolically hectic.
He's in the House and Mr Arroyo is in the house, and both have somehow been recruited to put away today's grocery haul. He's never been tasked with this before with the help of another person, and Tim had never thought about how cramped a kitchen can be when he's trying to shimmy a carton of eggs into the fridge and Gil is trying to do something or other with juice, which coincidentally also belongs in the fridge.
Rude.
Anyway, that's the exact moment it strikes Tim that he has wholly forgotten Lieutenant Gil Arroyo. He blinks into the cool expanse of the fridge and is pleased to find no spiders. Huh.
"So, those Wanted posters out there..." he starts. Stops. Thinks, nah that's not a good way to go about it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
text, unknown number. Nov 1
Date: 2021-10-30 11:32 pm (UTC)Members' profiles and personal numbers? He'd had a certain few memorized since Week One.]
it looks like you're up to bat. When would you use lethal force?
no subject
Date: 2021-11-25 06:41 pm (UTC)When: too often, lately. Gil rubs his face with one hand, takes a deep breath, sighs. Then, with a quirk of irony on his lips:]
No solicitations.
no subject
Date: 2021-11-25 06:53 pm (UTC)[It's a question but-- he's sleepy, don't judge. Hold on.]
?
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Date: 2021-11-25 08:22 pm (UTC)That is not the question to ask when it comes to use of lethal force.
no subject
Date: 2021-11-25 08:38 pm (UTC)Not the answer I expected from you.
thank you for your time.
[--that's it?]
no subject
Date: 2021-11-25 08:42 pm (UTC)Not so fast, kid.
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Date: 2021-11-25 08:45 pm (UTC)Go ahead and call. Blow up the phone.
He's done here.]
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Date: 2021-11-25 08:48 pm (UTC)action, ADI C3, cw description of injuries, sssstalking
Date: 2022-01-05 10:15 pm (UTC)It works.
He's kept his head down. Since...
It works.
And now he's knocking on the door of C3 with his good hand, aware that Arroyo has been in for a few minutes. The old man can work a phone and Tim can too but some things are better done in person. Feeling cold anxiety swell inside him, Tim figures this is one of those things.]
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 01:29 am (UTC)When he sees it's Tim at the door, he's briefly surprised, but only briefly. (The fist-pumping over baby steps in domesticating the feral child is internal.)
"Come on in. It's freezing even in the hallways."
cw SI im sorry you always get the worst of it
Date: 2022-01-16 01:43 am (UTC)His eyes track to Gil's hip, left or right or wherever he's certain he's seen the guy holster that gun. It would be a blink-and-miss movement that would be incredibly hard to hide. Tim doesn't even try. Whether the glock is there or not...
This isn't about him.
Tim shakes his head. Refuses to budge. His problem-- one of the many-- is that he'd been too eager to accept invitations like that. It would seem harmless, right? God, it's really not. "This is private," he ventures, unsure of his own excuse and how it will land but he continues stronger. "It concerns Malcolm."
;.; jimothy pls
Date: 2022-01-16 01:54 am (UTC)He glances back over his shoulder, then looks at Tim, torn for a moment.
Then he just nods, waving the book vaguely in the direction of the apartment. "I'll be right out. Sure you don't want to wait inside while I grab my shoes?"
It is cold.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 02:03 am (UTC)He rests his weight on his good leg. And waits.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 02:26 am (UTC)A man's jacket looks different when put over a holster, even if the intent is concealed carry. At least, it does to a Bat. Gotham is ruthless in teaching a vigilante about that.
And Tim... isn't too interested in the hasty journey. He still hasn't pieced together that it's back to the B unit that they're headed.
He frowns. Realizes he's jealous. Gross. He's gross. There's something so wrong with hating earnest concern; there's something so wrong with him.
"Malcolm dropped his medications," Tim explains. He lists them, one by one, all of them. "He's feeling the side effects. He quit cold turkey as far as I'm concerned."
Which is to say, if the medication is left on the kitchen counter, he knows what count of pills remain in every bottle. Because of course he does.
"I know he didn't tell you. I don't know if he wants anyone to know what he did. But he's not well."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 02:29 am (UTC)The shock actually takes a moment for him to work through. "Wh-- Why--?"
here we go again cw explicit suicidal thoughts
Date: 2022-01-16 02:41 am (UTC)He shakes his head.
"I don't know."
He should.
But he should have done a lot of things.
Like pull the trigger, way back when, gun against his head.
Hope's an important thing, he had hissed at Malcolm once.
"We don't--" it sounds stupid. Small. He sounds stupid, Tim corrects himself. "We don't talk. I don't know."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 02:48 am (UTC)Right under finding out if Malcolm is okay.
Which is, to his invisible chagrin (and immediate guilt), right under--
"You're hurt." It's not a question. Gil doesn't start walking again. He lifts a hand, hovering it over Tim's arm without touching him. The kid is wired tighter than that grenade Malcolm jumped on, and Gil isn't interested in finding out what happens when he's touched without explicit consent. "How? What happened?"
cw injuries , very small reference to SA
Date: 2022-01-16 03:01 am (UTC)"Broken fingers, broken ribs," he tallies, his voice growing smaller every count. He pointedly tries to ignore the pull in his leg. "Just a few," he admits. It comes out more like a whine, the whiplash of the moment making him dizzy.
It's fine he mouths at Arroyo, because hover-hand is embarrassing for the both of them and it's not like his neck or shoulders were rocked. Because it's cold. And maybe that'll warm up the cavity that's his chest-- just a touch.
God, he's so
Gil had asked, and that's kind of cool, and he had never wanted to think about
"It's fine."
His eyes are watering, it's not fine.
What the hell happened? Tim has an answer. He doesn't want it. He huffs out a breath of hot air, ignites the shock of pain, and says "It's fine. Come on. It's cold." And Malcolm's waiting. He thinks.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 03:11 am (UTC)Gently, firmly, Gil repeats the question. "What happened?"
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 03:47 am (UTC)What happened.
"Medical took care of the infection and I'm coming off the antibiotics with their... help."
But he hadn't said anything about the wound in his leg before-- painful but small, and so it had been easily forgotten when it came time to wade through an infestation of putrid things.
What happened is, he'd gotten people killed again, and something's broken in him because he can't...
The silence stretches and Tim's aware the Lieutenant hadn't meant the question Tim had answered.
Tough luck.
He knows his carelessness does that. He knows he ought to be better. It's all Bruce wanted, was for him to do better. Tim had gotten faster, stronger, harder.
Not better, though.
What happened was, God, these weren't even the first people he'd gotten killed. Did you know that? He's not even talking about collateral. A revolting word for human life. But he's not counting that. Direct action. Responsibility. Tim's mouth stays shut, his gaze neither here nor there.
Anyway. He chews his tongue and is back to the present.
He doesn't lean back, move away. But he is solidly rooted to the ground.
"Malcolm should be back at the apartment. If he was out, he should be in by now. He'll want to see you."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 03:57 am (UTC)“I’m not going to hurt you,” Gil tells him softly. “Whoever did, whatever happened, I’m not going to hurt you.”
no subject
Date: 2022-01-16 04:22 am (UTC)"He's hurting himself!"
Or does this man not understand that drug withdrawal
what's he playing at? What's Mr. Arroyo playing at? Tim would like to say he's baffled. He doesn't know what he is anymore, though. He's just hurt, the outburst unwelcome in his body. "What are you doing?"
Whether he asks the man or himself is up in the air.
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From:cw back on the SI train chooochooo
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From:me: SCREAM I THOUGHT I REPLIED TO THIS... but then Life Happened So Much
From:everything is So Much ❤
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From:March 27, I'm here to take over your inbox, also this is important I GUESS
Date: 2022-03-29 03:32 am (UTC)peacocks lost their streak at the elite 8 but i still know what I'm marking on my calendar when I get back home
I'm still taking over this inbox and I love it
Date: 2023-05-14 04:24 pm (UTC)He's in the House and Mr Arroyo is in the house, and both have somehow been recruited to put away today's grocery haul. He's never been tasked with this before with the help of another person, and Tim had never thought about how cramped a kitchen can be when he's trying to shimmy a carton of eggs into the fridge and Gil is trying to do something or other with juice, which coincidentally also belongs in the fridge.
Rude.
Anyway, that's the exact moment it strikes Tim that he has wholly forgotten Lieutenant Gil Arroyo. He blinks into the cool expanse of the fridge and is pleased to find no spiders. Huh.
"So, those Wanted posters out there..." he starts. Stops. Thinks, nah that's not a good way to go about it.
"--there's this girl..."
Uh.