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
text, un: timjdrake, Dec 18
Tim doesn't give himself the moment to have his thumb hover over the screen of his phone. It's not even in his hand. The phone just barely touches his hip, anyway, where he's laid on the fucking floor of this room. Handsfree texting. It's all the rage.
God knows Tim has enough... mana. To fuel magical instances like this. He closes his eyes and sighs and the message sends.]
Are you okay?
no subject
Jeff's used to drifting in and out of people's lives. He doesn't expect them to take it personally, just as he doesn't take it personally. Drifting... is passive. It just happens.
Ignoring is totally different. It takes a fucking decision. And for all of Jeff's hippie, drifty, dreamy flakiness, he's still, like, a bard: emotional, needy, and fucking dramatic. They've got a rep back home for a good reason.
What Jeff should do: tell Tim he's okay, and ask if he's okay, and what the fuck happened, with Ren and the bugs and the whole Jim fiasco--
But Tim ignored him, and so Jeff's stupid hurt feelings take over. He looks at the phone, and he decides to leave him on read while he goes to drown himself in other people. There's a house party he wants to hit up, anyway.
A response does come, though, a few hours later, texted from some stranger's couch. ]
you're a dick
no subject
(Not true, a desperate voice in his head cries. That's not true.)
It feels true, though. And there's precedent. Logically. This wouldn't be the first time he buries something good
Ari
Ives
Steph
Zo
Tam
or buries someone he only barely knows
Z
Owens
his dad
so it doesn't even hurt. Really, it doesn't. Tim had long suspected he's dead inside, or well on the way there. He waits a full two minutes for a response before allowing himself to drift off to sleep.
Words blare across his closed lids, blinding color fires through his head. He wakes up because the phone tells him to.
Sure.]
are you okay?
[He knows he's a dick. Thanks.]
no subject
--instead, he opens it, and he reads it, and... thaws a little. If only because Tim's sticking his ground and didn't insult him with some bullshit 'I'm sorry.'
But he's still emotional, and impulsive, and hurt, so while he responds faster this time, it's still petty: ]
you couldve asked last month when i needed it
[ Just getting that off his chest helps him thaw a little more. At least enough to finally answer the question... with a non-answer: ]
i'm fine. i'm the same as always
[ Then: ]
are you ok?
[ There's two chicks on the couch with him, their faces illuminated by the glow of their screens as they text, too. Huh. Jeff is finally fitting in with his Fellow Kids. ]
no subject
He'd thought Malcolm would have... helped. Would have helped better than Tim could have.
"I lost track of time," he tells the ceiling, but it doesn't answer.]
yeah
[Yeah, he should have done better. Yeah, he's... same as always, he thinks. (No, he's not.)]
I'm sorry.
[There it is.]
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[ It's not much of an answer, and this being text and all, who can even say what Jeff's tone here is, if it's a simple "okay, apology accepted," or a reassuring "everything's okay," or... a dismissive "okay whatever". Or maybe it's just what it looks like: neutral affirmation, with no deeper meaning.
It's vague because, fuck, Jeff isn't even sure how he feels or what his tone should be. Unloading at a crazy chick over a wasp-filled phone kind of awakened his own hurt and frustration, and he doesn't know how to dispel it yet. He's not angry anymore, just confused, uncertain, and guarded. ]
whats going on?
S I G H cw suicidal thoughts
That's so much more than what he's gotten from so many other people.
He kind of wants to cry but of course he doesn't.]
I don't know.
[...]
I'm fucked up.
[...]
I fucked up. I screwed up. I always do that but I thought this would be different and it would work. It did work.
[...
No it didn't.
You dumbass.
Imbecile.
Didn't he make a promise? That he'd put a gun to his head and pull the trigger before he ever got to that point to this point isn't this what he'd been trying to stop to end he needs to stop he needs]
I don't know.
[Who the hell is he talking to, even.]
Jeff?
[.] Are you okay?
no subject
There goes whatever frost had been remaining in his chest. It's too familiar-- painfully, intimately familiar-- like he might as well be looking at his own thoughts, reflected back at him. ]
it's ok
i'm fucked up too
[ Acceptance. It's about the best he can offer. ]
i don't know if i'm ok. but that's fine. that's normal i guess
[ Then, in case it needs to be said: ]
i didnt get hurt by that bug chick
did she go after you?
[ And, after some hesitation: ]
can i come see you?
no subject
[...] Yes.
I don't know.
[Did she go after him? Should Jeff come see him?]
I was going to turn the phone off. It hurts. I don't know how to make it shut up, but it gives me a headache.
no subject
are people blowing up your phone? turn it off. unplug or whatever
[ And then, since he doesn't REALLY know what to make of the yes no maybe response to his question: ]
i'm at a party btw
if you want to get out and get away from all the bullshit
[ He shoots Tim the address, then: ]
if not... goodnight. see you around
1/2
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.