Jeff Calhoun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cacophonish) wrote2021-07-19 04:09 am
cacophonish) wrote2021-07-19 04:09 am
Entry tags:
APOCALYPSE HOW: IC INBOX
"...is this thing on?"
un: freakscene
voice | video | text | action | everything
"...is this thing on?"
un: freakscene
voice | video | text | action | everything
no subject
...
!
Holy hell, Batman he did not just send
yeap, he sure did send that message.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, everything fucking--]
I didn't mean that
youre not a jerk. Sorry. I'm messed up
[Well. He's said that already. Tim fights the urge to chuck the phone at the wall regardless. Shaky fingers type away.]
I don't think I'm fit for a party man I got pretty bruised up, I'm staying at
hold on.
[Fuck, he wants to cry. But he sends off the address: it's a ritzy place, a hotel above the pay grade of ADI grunts.
It went down like this:
He left B1. For a bit, you know. He needed... space. But he hadn't gotten paid. Stupid. What the hell's he doing, thinking about pay? Of course he hadn't gotten paid. But.
He didn't need pay.
It's all about just... fudging some numbers, when he slipped his previous prepaid card to the bewildered, frowning receptionist. And the thing is
Tim knows how. Had been trained to know how to make these sorts of transactions seem legit.
It's so much easier when he can just lean on the card reader and suddenly that's it, he can afford a good room.
Anyway.
Anyway, he'd just wanted to sleep. He hadn't gotten much sleep.]
no subject
[ "Can't walk" and "pretty bruised up" are two wildly different conditions, far as he figures.
So.
Obviously Jeff is going to leave the party and make his way to the address and-- ugh, is he going to need to hitch a ride? He's probably going to need to hitch a ride. Time to bribe the most sober person at the party with a $20.
It may take him a little while to get to the hotel, but he does. And, ugh, okay, he really doesn't look like he belongs here, and this looks like the kind of hotel that might actually try to keep the riff raff out... So Jeff just waits until the front desk is occupied by someone checking in and/or out, and strolls past, confidently, like he's already got a room here.
Knock knock. ]
Open up before I drink up a tab and charge it to your room.
cw disassociation?
And then he drifts back to sleep, one arm hugging the cast loosely against his body.
He wakes up with a worse headache and a parched throat, and it takes time for him to figure out where that obnoxious banging comes from.
...right.
...christ, when had anyone come to ever visit him back home? This isn't about that. There's no morose, lonely longing for big, quiet rooms and gilded accents on oakwood.
Tim gets his feet under him. He huffs something like 'yeah yeah I'm coming', even if it's been... some minutes, now. Since Jeff arrived. Fuck.
He opens the door, steps smally off to one side and he doesn't say much of anything. He's got on Malcolm's sport coat, smart slacks. And it's like he's staring down Superboy again. Again-again, that time in Gotham?
This is real, right? Right?]
Hey.
no subject
[ Okay, so he does have both of his legs and they seem to be in working order. He's also dressed like a tiny businessman, which makes sense, given the whole... fancy hotel situation. A kid strolling up looking like Jeff would probably be turned away before they even whipped out their card.
Jeff looks at Tim, and he takes in the injuries-- at least the ones he can see. Bruised face, broken... hand? Fingers? ]
Who-- Did... did the bugs do this?
[ Bugs: notorious for breaking bones and punching people in the face.
And then, because it doesn't occur to him that there might be injuries he can't see... Jeff pulls Tim into a totally ill-advised hug. ]
no subject
He's not awake enough for this. He almost believes he's back in San Francisco, but the hall just outside is too quiet for it. But the bite of heavy pining doesn't care. Tim sucks in a breath, singular and low, and he's being pulled into a hug.
He's not awake enough for this. There's several things wrong here. His arm doesn't slot well between the bodies, his good hand still feels tired and torn and it weighs against the pull of a shoulder. Tim is burying his head into the front of Jeff's chest and he smells the smell of a late party, its smoke and drink and bodies. And despite it there's the cool of December night air still clinging to Jeff Calhoun, and Tim thinks that cold relief against his throbbing head is going to kill him. Or maybe it's the lack of breathing he's doing that's going to kill him. The hot pain of a fire in his right leg, the shock after shock after shock of lungs desperate to expand.
There's several things wrong here.
Tim is sure he's crying. He doesn't know why he's crying.
He's not awake enough for this.] You're crushing me.
[High, small, airy words because he can't breathe because his ribs are barely set because Jeff is an octopus of a man, all limbs and
intelligence?
Tim's no better. He'd be hanging tight if he could, a dependency for validation and affection just suddenly there, between them.
Tim laughs, short and rough and even his throat is parched and hurt. And his chest hurts-- seriously fucking burns
and Jeff's got December air on his person, still, lightly generating a contrast against flush skin that Tim's half delirious for. He's crying, but the tears are drying fast. Tim Drake's not used to
this.] I'm so screwed up, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
no subject
Oh-- shit! Shit, sorry--
[ --like he might be a little, uh, tender. Like maybe he needs to breathe. Jeff lets go, abrupt, as if one of them might be burning to the touch. He ducks his head a little, tilts it, looks a little guilty (for suffocating the dude, for exacerbating injuries, for being cold, earlier), a little concerned, and... ]
Hey.
[ Is Tim crying or laughing? Jeff reaches up with a tentative hand, gingerly brushing a thumb on Tim's cheek, trying to swipe away some tears with a chilly fingertip. Tim's so warm, and he can't tell if it only feels that way because he's just come in from outside, or if Tim's running hot, flush with a fever or... or something. ]
You're not-- [ He stops himself. ] Okay, maybe you are, but so what. I'm screwed up, Mere's screwed up, Malcolm-- Everyone's screwed up. [ We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. ] It's okay.