“A hand up,” Gil drawls, finally giving up on the indignity of trying to get up himself and struggling. He reaches one toward Tim and one toward Malcolm.
“First person to make a joke about me being old gets force-fed the rest of that chili dog.”
Malcolm’s eyes stay on Tim, like he’s afraid their bat will fly away if he’s not looking.
“Sit with me a bit?” he blurts out at Tim’s question. He’s in no shape to leave the vicinity of the toilet right now. “I promise I’ll… try not to throw up on you.”
...god, it really is going to be three guys in a bathroom.
Tim's glad the space is... roomy, as far as private rooms in shared apartments go. He ducks through the threshold of the door despite being at absolutely no risk of bumping his head, focusing on the ache and twist of his tired body. He pads to Arroyo, offering an arm for the man to brace on.
It's fine.
He wonders if the man will reject it, think he's delicate or something. Not that Tim's given him reason to think otherwise.
Fuck.
Tim... eyes the door he just came in through. He thinks about sucking in a deep breath. But not with the smell of vomit lingering like it is. He can stay.
Prove he's not going to... find his way up a high rise somewhere and jump.
“Dyer? What’s Dyer? The chili cheese dog? It was from a place called ‘Mama’s’,” Malcolm says. He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again. “I was going to stop it but. I just thought… maybe I’m almost there. I was going to stop yesterday.” He looks at Tim’s knee. “Is your leg okay? I didn’t… I didn’t want to hurt you.”
"Emily Dyer," Tim interjects, shooting a not-at-a-subtle glance at Gil when Malcolm does what he does best: just rattle off sensitive information like it's somehow made better if more people know it. He hadn't mentioned his leg, doesn't think Arroyo wouldn't have clued in on it anyway but. Damn it, Malcolm. Tim sighs out a disinterested: "It's fine."
He wonders if Gil is sick of hearing those two words yet.
He shifts his weight to his better leg. Feels the heat of having not removed his jacket and gloves. Oh well, that can... wait. Tim isn't sure he believes Malcolm would have just-- quit this shit, soon. Maybe he could have been more patient instead of giving in to his anxieties.
His brows furrow.
"You met with Dr. Emily Dyer, didn't you? Did she say anything about your medications? Why did... you didn't even try to taper off them."
"Oh. Doctor Dyer. Yeah. She gave me some new sleep aid. She told me it wouldn't conflict with the medications I was already on. But I'm not taking that either. A new year calls for a new you. I thought I could just. Power through. I could power through and be normal and then... then I wouldn't disturb everyone all the time and I could... fit in at ADI and... and anywhere else."
He takes a slightly deeper breath and leans back against the side of the tub.
"But I don't feel good. I feel less good every day."
Still. He should have been more meticulous, should have vetted Dyer more than he thought he had. Tim tells himself to add her to the List. He doesn't know why she hadn't been included in it but he worries his lip in guilt anyway. Moving forward, though-- the guilt's still there, and it settles and nestles deep underneath his stomach, a dragon claiming its hard-won hoard.
He doesn't remind Malcolm that he feels not-good because of his own actions.
Being normal is, uh... Tim has to look away for a second. He'd fantasized about that, too. His event horizon came up-- sooner than he had ever figured, though. He gets it. "You don't disturb everyone all the time," he says instead. He sucks at anything less than scripted condolences.
(That's not true, something in him whispers.)
Malcolm's looking one more misery away from barfing, and Tim's heart hurts.
"You just disturb some people, some of the time." Nailed it. "Everybody does that. It's part of being human."
And. He wants to shift his weight again; fidget again. His leg, hand, ribs, all tell him No.
He knows what he’s done to himself, but something made him truly believe the terrible would subside if he stuck with it. But it’s only gotten worse and worse.
At Tim’s last comment, Malcolm’s eyes snap up to him. He thought he was. Maybe not even about the stabbing. Before that. He didn’t know how he’d ruined everything, but ruining everything is a Thing that he Does.
“You’re not?” He swallows what feels like a rising sob or maybe rising bile. “I’m sorry anyway,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it; I didn’t know what was happening.” A beat. “…Was it deep?”
Tim shoots another rueful side-eye to the Lieutenant-warden of this jail cell. There's going to be no winning this. Tim waits until he's sure Malcolm isn't going to actually throw up, half of a wince on his face either in preparation for said event or because he's
he's sorry, too, but he's not and it's not what it sounds like he swears it it's just
complicated.
Everything's just complicated.
He's tired.
He's sorry.
"It's... actually the first time I ever got, like, um." And-- wow, it's true now that he thinks on it. "Stabbed with a pencil? So I don't have, uh, a point of reference or anything."
Was it deep?
There's the answer.
Tim shakes his head; regrets it. He's feeling dizzy. There's way too many bodies in here, way too little space. But it's whatever. "It's fine, Malcolm."
Please just believe it, he dumbly prays. Please just let it go. He tries for a smile, nervous and flighty. "Besides, families fight, right? You said that yourself. It's fine. I promise-- do you think you're going to be okay?"
Malcolm nods and levers himself up just enough to grab the bag of medicine bottles, clutching it to his chest as he drops back onto his ass by the tub.
Again, he turns to Arroyo: this time, almost as if he was asking for direction. Stubbornly, he forces his gaze away from that holstered gun.
He had promised himself he'd blow his brains out before ever getting to this point.
That he would pull the trigger on that loaded gun, have only half a thought run through his head before the bullet did.
He had never felt so at peace, than when he was falling. He had thought he was done.
But promises to himself never mattered; and now here he was, thinking
Yeah, he can learn to be okay.
People died.
.
.
But.
It could have been worse.
And now here he was, speechless and cornered and
"I didn't mean to make you feel cornered," Tim blurts out. He thinks he's forgetting how to breathe. "I still don't know how my body will react to-- more than just viruses, you know, it's like-- infections. I've been to Medical, though. I'll be fine."
That's really what it should all boil down to.
His chest hurts; he's tired and his fingers are screaming; he hasn't rested his hand, his shoulders are tight with tension, which is goading his ribs into feeling like they're boiling and he... shifts his weight, to that still-healing leg.
It makes him laugh, the ridiculous phrasing. The noise comes a shade lighter than hysterical and the abruptness of it bubbling out makes Tim whine an "Ow--" just as quickly.
We're all mad here.
He thinks about Jeff.
The self-consciousness weighs as heavily as anything else at the moment and Tim knows his face is red, flushed.
"I--"
Get it together, man.
New year new me. New year new me. New year
"I-- I wanna help. You and-- Meredith. I just want to help."
and what they want, they don't have, a vicious voice snarls at him. Tim's been retreating. He can't remember when he started to try to make himself phase through the wall he's inched his way to. His back presses against it and he feels the knobs of his spine and a cool draft from some unknown source.
Someone's gotta call maintenance for that.
He's looking at nothing, despite having his head turned and his eyes on that door just to his side. He can't leave, he's already said he wouldn't. Well-- anyway, he's said he wouldn't want to. His face feels hot, his everything feels uncomfortable.
It's like there's spiders in his brain again.
And the static is back, drowning out the rush of his blood and the stuttering, clumsy beating of his heart. He blinks and his eyelashes come back wet. And he doesn't know what to do or what he can say that's
Malcolm looks up at him uncertainly, arms wrapping more tightly around the pack of meds.
“I don’t mean you have to stay in the bathroom,” he clarifies. “I know what it smells like. I just mean… don’t run away for good. Don’t leave us behind. I feel like… if you’re going to, you just will and I won’t get the chance to say that. So I’m saying it.”
He laughs again, the absurdity catching up to him and then the tears fall. Tim can't be sure if it's because of the inescapable pain of the constriction of his chest or because he can't look at Malcolm without thinking of his brother. Can't look at Gil without thinking of
sullen resentment.
It's a swirl of too much. The emotions are too much. Tim shakes his head.
"It's true," he manages through a tight throat. He's pretty sure the racing heart and oscillating numbness and sensitivity is, like, an anxiety attack or something. He keeps his gaze on the... floor. "You wouldn't find me. Nobody would."
Not a brag, not a threat. It just is, as far as Tim's concerned. It's just the fact of the matter.
He thinks through a sob, he likes the hurt a little too much. So he asks, "Would you look?" For him?
Gil settled himself on the closed lid of the toilet, since these two seem to have decided to have it out right here. There are about a dozen things he wants clarification on, not the least of which is Who gave you what sleep aids now, but it's hard enough for either of these boys to be honest even with themselves.
"We're pretty good at finding people," he notes mildly, his smile ironic and calm. He gestures in Malcolm's direction. "He is particularly good at it."
The last time-- or one of the last times-- they had talked, Arroyo had guessed correctly: that Tim thought every other word out of his mouth was bunk. It's hard to reel in the disbelief at the man's claim. Not that he doesn't believe the two are good at what they do.
Tim just maybe thinks he's better.
After all, if he wasn't good at becoming invisible, it wouldn't have ever been so easy to get left behind. His parents wouldn't have ever felt so secure in leaving their son waiting by the phone, waiting by the bay window, waiting for a postcard to say he'll be left alone even longer.
If he wasn't part ghost, he wouldn't have been able to follow The Batman like he had, snapping pictures of the legendary thing at its worst, without being found.
If he wasn't so easily forgotten, maybe someone beyond Tam would have found him in Baghdad back then-- maybe his brother would have even followed after Tim returned to Gotham at his insistence for help, would have been a united front against the Demon's Head.
Tim shakes his head, shakes those thoughts. "Sure," he says. He has no idea what he was... told? Asked? But yeah, sure. He can help, if only he can pull himself together again.
The sincere compliment from the person whose opinion probably means the most in the world to him makes him, smile down at his knees as he pulls them up to his chest, still clutching his bag of meds there. He looks up at Tim.
Gil glances at Malcolm, a little twinkle of approval in his smile. To Tim, he says, "I know you're probably allergic to that degree of bluntness, but he's telling the truth."
Something about the 'L-word' has Tim's shoulders stiffen, even if he doesn't know it. It's hard to feel tense when the whole of him is, body reacting as it should to deceit lies manipulation misinformation the... bluntness.
Another (soft) snort and childish shake of his head, mop of black hair becoming more unruly somehow. "Bruce is blunt, you guys are..."
(his cheeks tint pink and Tim wonders when he can stop being so pathetic) "...nice."
Like a cute kitten is nice even if tries to claw, or a pack of dogs is 'nice' in that they can't have it in them to go against their nature and be ugly.
Tim really wants a dog.
His nose scrunches up as he directs the whiny question to Malcolm. "You don't have to sleep in the tub, do you? You'll be okay if I step... out?"
"I think I'll sleep in my room," Malcolm says, smiling down at the baggie of pills clutched to his chest. "After I take my medicine." He looks up at Tim. "Thank you."
"What he said," Gil adds quietly. "I appreciate you coming to find me. A lot."
He hesitates, trying and failing to gauge whether it's too much to pile on, before he says, "You can come to me too. If you need something. Putting that out there."
Gil waves a hand at Tim. "Flee while you can, kid."
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2022-01-17 03:07 am (UTC)“First person to make a joke about me being old gets force-fed the rest of that chili dog.”
no subject
Date: 2022-01-17 03:20 am (UTC)“Sit with me a bit?” he blurts out at Tim’s question. He’s in no shape to leave the vicinity of the toilet right now. “I promise I’ll… try not to throw up on you.”
cw back on the SI train chooochooo
Date: 2022-01-17 03:31 am (UTC)Tim's glad the space is... roomy, as far as private rooms in shared apartments go. He ducks through the threshold of the door despite being at absolutely no risk of bumping his head, focusing on the ache and twist of his tired body. He pads to Arroyo, offering an arm for the man to brace on.
It's fine.
He wonders if the man will reject it, think he's delicate or something. Not that Tim's given him reason to think otherwise.
Fuck.
Tim... eyes the door he just came in through. He thinks about sucking in a deep breath. But not with the smell of vomit lingering like it is. He can stay.
Prove he's not going to... find his way up a high rise somewhere and jump.
He frowns, and addresses Malcolm. "Was it Dyer?"
no subject
Date: 2022-01-18 01:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-01-18 07:18 pm (UTC)He wonders if Gil is sick of hearing those two words yet.
He shifts his weight to his better leg. Feels the heat of having not removed his jacket and gloves. Oh well, that can... wait. Tim isn't sure he believes Malcolm would have just-- quit this shit, soon. Maybe he could have been more patient instead of giving in to his anxieties.
His brows furrow.
"You met with Dr. Emily Dyer, didn't you? Did she say anything about your medications? Why did... you didn't even try to taper off them."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-18 07:24 pm (UTC)He takes a slightly deeper breath and leans back against the side of the tub.
"But I don't feel good. I feel less good every day."
He looks at Tim. "And I missed you."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-18 08:21 pm (UTC)He doesn't remind Malcolm that he feels not-good because of his own actions.
Being normal is, uh... Tim has to look away for a second. He'd fantasized about that, too. His event horizon came up-- sooner than he had ever figured, though. He gets it. "You don't disturb everyone all the time," he says instead. He sucks at anything less than scripted condolences.
(That's not true, something in him whispers.)
Malcolm's looking one more misery away from barfing, and Tim's heart hurts.
"You just disturb some people, some of the time." Nailed it. "Everybody does that. It's part of being human."
And. He wants to shift his weight again; fidget again. His leg, hand, ribs, all tell him No.
"You know I'm not... mad at you or anything."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-18 10:43 pm (UTC)At Tim’s last comment, Malcolm’s eyes snap up to him. He thought he was. Maybe not even about the stabbing. Before that. He didn’t know how he’d ruined everything, but ruining everything is a Thing that he Does.
“You’re not?” He swallows what feels like a rising sob or maybe rising bile. “I’m sorry anyway,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it; I didn’t know what was happening.” A beat. “…Was it deep?”
no subject
Date: 2022-01-18 11:17 pm (UTC)Tim shoots another rueful side-eye to the Lieutenant-warden of this jail cell. There's going to be no winning this. Tim waits until he's sure Malcolm isn't going to actually throw up, half of a wince on his face either in preparation for said event or because he's
he's sorry, too, but he's not and it's not what it sounds like he swears it it's just
complicated.
Everything's just complicated.
He's tired.
He's sorry.
"It's... actually the first time I ever got, like, um." And-- wow, it's true now that he thinks on it. "Stabbed with a pencil? So I don't have, uh, a point of reference or anything."
Was it deep?
There's the answer.
Tim shakes his head; regrets it. He's feeling dizzy. There's way too many bodies in here, way too little space. But it's whatever. "It's fine, Malcolm."
Please just believe it, he dumbly prays. Please just let it go. He tries for a smile, nervous and flighty. "Besides, families fight, right? You said that yourself. It's fine. I promise-- do you think you're going to be okay?"
Can he, like
leave?
no subject
Date: 2022-01-18 11:31 pm (UTC)"Are you?" he asks.
cw explicit suicidal thoughts reference to canon threat of suicide
Date: 2022-01-18 11:59 pm (UTC)Again, he turns to Arroyo: this time, almost as if he was asking for direction. Stubbornly, he forces his gaze away from that holstered gun.
He had promised himself he'd blow his brains out before ever getting to this point.
That he would pull the trigger on that loaded gun, have only half a thought run through his head before the bullet did.
He had never felt so at peace, than when he was falling. He had thought he was done.
But promises to himself never mattered; and now here he was, thinking
Yeah, he can learn to be okay.
People died.
.
.
But.
It could have been worse.
And now here he was, speechless and cornered and
"I didn't mean to make you feel cornered," Tim blurts out. He thinks he's forgetting how to breathe. "I still don't know how my body will react to-- more than just viruses, you know, it's like-- infections. I've been to Medical, though. I'll be fine."
That's really what it should all boil down to.
His chest hurts; he's tired and his fingers are screaming; he hasn't rested his hand, his shoulders are tight with tension, which is goading his ribs into feeling like they're boiling and he... shifts his weight, to that still-healing leg.
No one in this room is going to believe him. So.
"Just, uh. Just let it go, okay?"
no subject
Date: 2022-01-19 12:04 am (UTC)"Are you still going to stay with us? Here in the apartment, I mean."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-19 01:19 am (UTC)We're all mad here.
He thinks about Jeff.
The self-consciousness weighs as heavily as anything else at the moment and Tim knows his face is red, flushed.
"I--"
Get it together, man.
New year new me. New year new me. New year
"I-- I wanna help. You and-- Meredith. I just want to help."
It'll have to be good enough.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-19 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-01-19 03:28 am (UTC)and what they want, they don't have, a vicious voice snarls at him. Tim's been retreating. He can't remember when he started to try to make himself phase through the wall he's inched his way to. His back presses against it and he feels the knobs of his spine and a cool draft from some unknown source.
Someone's gotta call maintenance for that.
He's looking at nothing, despite having his head turned and his eyes on that door just to his side. He can't leave, he's already said he wouldn't. Well-- anyway, he's said he wouldn't want to. His face feels hot, his everything feels uncomfortable.
It's like there's spiders in his brain again.
And the static is back, drowning out the rush of his blood and the stuttering, clumsy beating of his heart. He blinks and his eyelashes come back wet. And he doesn't know what to do or what he can say that's
true
reassuring
helpful.
Emotions are too much for him on a good day.
This hasn't been a good day.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-19 03:31 am (UTC)“I don’t mean you have to stay in the bathroom,” he clarifies. “I know what it smells like. I just mean… don’t run away for good. Don’t leave us behind. I feel like… if you’re going to, you just will and I won’t get the chance to say that. So I’m saying it.”
no subject
Date: 2022-01-20 12:56 am (UTC)sullen resentment.
It's a swirl of too much. The emotions are too much. Tim shakes his head.
"It's true," he manages through a tight throat. He's pretty sure the racing heart and oscillating numbness and sensitivity is, like, an anxiety attack or something. He keeps his gaze on the... floor. "You wouldn't find me. Nobody would."
Not a brag, not a threat. It just is, as far as Tim's concerned. It's just the fact of the matter.
He thinks through a sob, he likes the hurt a little too much. So he asks, "Would you look?" For him?
no subject
Date: 2022-01-20 03:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-01-22 12:59 am (UTC)"We're pretty good at finding people," he notes mildly, his smile ironic and calm. He gestures in Malcolm's direction. "He is particularly good at it."
no subject
Date: 2022-01-22 02:02 am (UTC)Tim just maybe thinks he's better.
After all, if he wasn't good at becoming invisible, it wouldn't have ever been so easy to get left behind. His parents wouldn't have ever felt so secure in leaving their son waiting by the phone, waiting by the bay window, waiting for a postcard to say he'll be left alone even longer.
If he wasn't part ghost, he wouldn't have been able to follow The Batman like he had, snapping pictures of the legendary thing at its worst, without being found.
If he wasn't so easily forgotten, maybe someone beyond Tam would have found him in Baghdad back then-- maybe his brother would have even followed after Tim returned to Gotham at his insistence for help, would have been a united front against the Demon's Head.
Tim shakes his head, shakes those thoughts. "Sure," he says. He has no idea what he was... told? Asked? But yeah, sure. He can help, if only he can pull himself together again.
no subject
Date: 2022-01-22 02:34 am (UTC)“We love you, okay?”
me: SCREAM I THOUGHT I REPLIED TO THIS... but then Life Happened So Much
Date: 2022-03-31 11:51 pm (UTC)everything is So Much ❤
Date: 2022-04-01 12:07 am (UTC)deceit lies manipulation misinformationthe... bluntness.Another (soft) snort and childish shake of his head, mop of black hair becoming more unruly somehow. "Bruce is blunt, you guys are..."
(his cheeks tint pink and Tim wonders when he can stop being so pathetic) "...nice."
Like a cute kitten is nice even if tries to claw, or a pack of dogs is 'nice' in that they can't have it in them to go against their nature and be ugly.
Tim really wants a dog.
His nose scrunches up as he directs the whiny question to Malcolm. "You don't have to sleep in the tub, do you? You'll be okay if I step... out?"
He loves you too. But.
Always with the running away.
no subject
Date: 2022-04-01 12:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-04-01 03:01 pm (UTC)He hesitates, trying and failing to gauge whether it's too much to pile on, before he says, "You can come to me too. If you need something. Putting that out there."
Gil waves a hand at Tim. "Flee while you can, kid."
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