#everyone thinks she’s great but on multiple occasions she’s made me feel like i’m incompetent | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

misssophiachase · 5 years

Note

Mini Prompt - Klaus kisses Caroline at midnight on NYE and it leaves her a bit flustered, although she'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy it.

Thanks anon! I wish I had this for Klaroeve. I hope you like my take. It’s based on lyrics from New Year’s Day by Taylor Swift, one of my faves. As per usual I’m not too good at sticking to the whole ‘mini’ premise of a drabble, must be your amazing prompt!

New Year’s Day

Hold onto the memories…

PresentDay – Austin, TX

Caroline Forbes hated New Year’s Eve.

Well, since five years ago.

It had become a well-known fact within her family andclose circle of friends both in her hometown of New York and now more recently in Austin. Thankfully no one had dared to askwhy she’d changed her tune so suddenly and that was just fine.

So much so that she insisted upon being left aloneevery year. And for the most part they did so because she was like an extremelygrouchy bear with a sore head. Obviously December 31st, 2018, was anotherstory altogether. Her friends had bravely, or stupidly, decided to poke said bear.

Caroline had bought the supermarket out of ChunkyMonkey and was preparing her first movie. Who didn’t want to watch the Notebookon New Year’s Eve? It wasn’t like the occasion could get any moredepressing, right?

“Ohgod, kill me,” she heard that familiar voice before she saw its owner. “Talkabout depressing.” It was like she could read her mind.

“Idon’t know, Ryan Gosling isn’t too bad to look at, Kat,” the other familiarvoice offered.

“Weare trying to get her out of this sick and twisted situation not remind herthat Ryan Gosling is hot and a totally worthy reason for staying home on New Years.”

“Wayto convince her to come out,” Bonnie drawled, sarcastically.

“Yourealise I can hear you both, right?” She murmured, chomping on some butteredpopcorn and not bothering to turn around knowing her best friends were standingimpatiently in her kitchen. “And while we’re at it, remind me toconfiscate your keys to my apartment.”

“Canyou just drop this whole hostility act, it’s not attractive, Care,” Katherinechided.

“Saysthe girl who is crashing my private movie marathon?”

“Youneed an intervention, enough is enough,” she huffed, her high heels clicking onthe floorboards. Caroline didn’t have much time to react given her supposedbest friend had stolen the television remote and turned everything off.

“Youdidn’t just do that, real mature Pierce. Who are you anyway? The fun police?” She snapped, a comment more than a question. Katherinelifted the remote above her head so she couldn’t snatch it so easily.

“If you think she’s the fun police, you really do need help,” Bonnie added. “This whole, weird tradition needs to be broken.”

“Ithought you were on my side, Bon?”

“Notsince you decided that outfit was acceptable even behind closed doors,” shesuggested. Caroline looked curiously at her combination of pinksweatpants and a blue and orange Knicks jersey and decided it was just fine.

“Iknow you’re a Spurs fan Bonnie but even that comment is low.”

“Justplease stop being snarky and put this on,” Katherine drawled, holding up whatlooked like a small, black garment.

“Byitself?” Caroline baulked.

“It’sa dress, Caroline,” she shot back.

“Areyou sure it’s not a belt?”

“Howold are you again?” Caroline narrowed her eyes in her friend’s direction. Shewas on the older side of twenty-seven but there were moments her Great Aunt Mabel decided to takeover her body. Caroline chose to think this was one of those occasions.

“I’mnot getting off this couch until you tell me what’s going on?” She scoffed.

“Fine,”Kat replied gruffly, relinquishing the dress (or belt) momentarily. “Youknow that guy I was telling you about?” Before Caroline could mentally trawl through theoptions, Bonnie interjected.

“No,not the Italian model, the Australian magician or the Scandinavian fisherman,” sheclarified. “This one is an art critic.”

“Wow, those are the hardest nuts to crack,” Caroline replied knowingly. She was a singer by trade, doing mostly small gigs around town but had met a few of those in her time performing at art gallery exhibitions. “ And I reiterate my previous observation,” she whistled thinking back to the most difficult of them.

5 years earlier…NYC

It was that ominous New Year’s Eve five years ago when she met a difficult art critic for the very first time. While his suit was impeccable, his attitude and supposed manners were grating on her last nerve. She was hoping to escape as soon as their set was finished.

The room was full, barely enough space to breathe in fact. Caroline had finished her song and made her way to what she thought was the back exit for some air but obviously took a wrong turn.

Caroline didn’t consider herself an art expert but she was neither excited nor moved by the works on display. She’d walked in circles, not expecting to meet someone obviously worked up and pacing the length of what looked like a back room.

“Sorry,” she offered, his eyes meeting her gaze unexpectedly. Caroline would be lying if she wasn’t aroused in that moment by his sinful, crimson lips and a stray dimple. “I took a wrong turn.”

“Do you like the art?” His question blind sighted her briefly. Caroline knew exactly what she thought but given they’d never been introduced formally and this guy was the artist paying her bills she was reluctant to speak.

“Well, um…”

“This work is rubbish don’t you think?

“Well, it’s not really my place…”

“Why, cat got your tongue?”

“Fine. If I’m being honest, it seems kind of forced.”

“How so?” She paused, wondering why this guy was so eager for her amateur opinion. “The truth, please,” he implored, she couldn’t miss the desperation in his tone and those pleading eyes.

“Honestly? It has no heart, it’s cold and unfeeling,” she admitted. “But please don’t tell the artist, I’d like to be able to pay my rent next month.”

He’d stared at her for a good few minutes and she wasn’t sure what he was going to do next. Turns out he didn’t have to say anything. She’d obviously said too much and kicked herself mentally. Caroline always spoke without thinking and this instance was no different.

The chants from the art gallery increased in volume and they could hear each number as it was articulated for countdown purposes. Still their eyes never lowered or deviated.

8….

“I hate New Year’s Eve,” Caroline murmured trying to break the tension.

“Me too,” he replied, a slight and unexpected grin tugging at the ends of those lips. “Even more than gallery showings when you hate the work your publicist has chosen without permission.”

6….

“You’re the artist?” She squeaked, “I thought it was the rude guy in the suit.”

“No, that’s my older brother,” he murmured. First she’d insulted his art and now his own brother. “He’s an art critic and thinks he knows everything. My sister is the publicist.”

“Well, I’d be firing their incompetent asses now, unless it makes things awkward at Christmas, of course.” she smiled, hoping a bit humour would dig her out of this big hole.

4….

“Who says it wasn’t awkward beforehand? I know you’re a singer but if there’s any chance you want to be my publicist let me know.”

“I’m not the nagging type but I’m also not the kiss-your-ass type either.”

3….

“Why? Don’t you like my ass?”

“If I was your publicist right now I’d say that ego is not attractive,” she shot back slyly. “And it might be difficult for me to lie if I was asked to deny it.”

1…

“I wouldn’t want you to lie, love,” he murmured. “Your honesty is the best part about you.”

As the countdown ended and the cheers sounded out, it was as if an invisible magnet pulled them together. She thought he was a bit of an ass and he seemed to be going through an artistic crisis, but their kiss lasted much longer than the prescribed time.

And it felt good.

So good.

Caroline didn’t want to enjoy it or him but the idiot had messed with her resolve. She pulled back, trying to find her balance and bearings as she did. “I’ve got to get going and sing some Auld Lang Syne.” She couldn’t miss the disappointment as it crossed his face.

“Thank you,” he offered as she walked away.

“For what?” She couldn’t resist, turning around briefly.

“For being honest.” She smiled briefly, the warmth flooding through her body before heading towards the make-shift stage.

She left not long after her set finished making her way from the venue. She hadn’t seem him again, probably best because guys like that weren’t her type. It was only when she passed him conversing with a very annoyed brunette who was questioning his absence during the countdown that Caroline realised he had a girlfriend but was kissing her instead. Her instincts were obviously right.

Unfortunately she hadn’t stopped thinking about him or that kiss since. He’d sparked something inside that Caroline hadn’t expected. Bastard. She’d even shamefully looked him up on the internet and realised he had multiple girlfriends around the place. She really should have known.

Caroline had always hated New Year’s Eve but now she decided it was best to avoid it at all costs. It was too much trouble.

They will hold onto you…

“He’sholding a party tonight at a place called the Original Gallery. Ineed to be there,” Katherine pleaded, choosing to ignore herindiscretions. “I think this guy is my soulmate Care, I can just feel it.”

“Andthis is your way of convincing her to come, how?” Bonnie rolled her eyes.

“You know art, Care. It would help if you were there as my wing woman.”

Granted she loved to visit galleries in her spare time and had recently enrolled in an art history course at UT but it didn’t make her an expert. Far from it, in fact. This was most definitely a stretch on Kat’s part, not that she was surprised.

“How about no?”

“How about you think about it and lose some of that Creature of the Black Lagoon act, you know hating everyoneand everything in your wake?”

“Another stellar reason for her to agree,” Bonnie observed.

“Please Care, you can stay in the corner of the room away from all people if that helps.”

“And Ihear the Hors d'oeuvres are going to be phenomenal if that’s anyconsolation,” Bonnie suggested.

Caroline bit her lip, torn between helping her annoying friend and the comfort of her couch. If she had any doubts, they were sealed when Katherine removed the remote control batteries and placed them securely in her purse.

“You are officially evil,” Caroline scowled.

“Howabout we talk about this while you change,” she smirked, throwing the dress (orbelt) in her direction. She was tempted to wipe the triumphant expression fromher face but decided to leave that for when she needed it most.

“Ihate you.”

“Ilove you too, Forbes.”

Fastforward three hours and Caroline was attempting to pull down her dress withoutmuch luck, it was still too short for her liking. If she had something else She was gladat least that Katherine and Bonnie seemed to be otherwise engaged.

Turns out Katherine had a thing for the art critic she’d met all those years ago. He still looked good in a suit but if anyone was a match for his disdain it was Katherine. His brother Kol, an indie film director, was in deep conversation with Bonnie.

It gave her chance to peruse the artwork, and it was some of the most brilliant she’d ever seen. What she hadn’t expected on entering was it to be at his show.

Of all people.

Caroline had no intention of seeing him again. She wasn’t some groupie even if his work was suddenly brilliant. She also noted that the clock was moving freely past midnight and the lastplace she wanted to be was in a big group of strangers.

Carolinetook the opportunity to escape towards the toilets. In her haste shemissed the marked doors and found herself in what seemed like a makeshiftstudio. It wasn’t her first getting lost, after all.

The lights were dimmed but she could make out the canvases lined upagainst the walls and the easel in the centre of the room which caught herattention.

Carolineshivered slightly, not sure whether it was the cool temperature or thespectacular art stealing her attention. She noticed a white, paintsplattered shirt hanging nearby, slipping it over her barely theredress without much thought. Suddenly she felt extremely comfortable, it didn’thurt that the familiar scent emanating from the collar was the perfect mixture of spiceand soap.

Shemade her way towards the easel, her hand reaching out and tracing the longbrush strokes.

“Doyou usually break and enter and steal people’s clothes?” She couldn’t see him but his crisp, Britishaccent was messing with her concentration. Mainly because of just how familiar it was, even after five years.

“Itook a wrong turn,” she shot back. “And it’s pretty cold when your bestfriend decides you should wear a belt disguised as a dress.”

“Funnyyou mention it, I have that problem all the time.”

“I’llbet you do,” she laughed. It was nice to let loose for a change. As he came into view it was difficult not to react. The semi insecure artist from years ago was oozing confidence in dark jeans and a grey henley. “I’m sorry to tell you this but your work is kind of…”

“Kind of?” A low, self-conscious growl emanated from his throat.

“Is someone worried?”

“You were the one who made me better before but if I need a kick up the ass I’m willing to take it.”

“Well, given our history, you know I’m not a fan of your ass,” she teased. Apparently he was an ass but it was so difficult not to react to his banter.

“I signed up to the gym straight away, my New Year’s Resolution,” he shared. “I also tried to track you down but you never returned my messages. I’d be lying if I said you didn’t give me a complex and not just because of the body shaming.”

“Says the guy who was absent from sharing a midnight kiss with his brunette girlfriend. I saw you two when I left.”

“I didn’t have a girlfriend,” he murmured, his mind obviously racing. “Hayley and I had a brief thing but she turned up that night insisting we get back together. I haven’t thought about anyone but you since that night. She was never really my type.”

“And what is your type exactly?”

“Smart, beautiful, feisty and outspoken. Tells me my work is bad, tells me my family are overbearing and that I’m an arrogant ass. And looks far better in my shirt than me. All of it factually correct.”

“Was there any question? But also….”

“Hang on, I wasn’t finished,” he interrupted. “You were the only person who was honest about my work. You saved me.”

“Now, I think you’re being a little dramatic,” she murmured, hoping he wasn’t. “Why are you here of all places?”

“I’ve been trying to track you down for years,” he said before clarifying. “I hate New Year’s Eve but you made it better five year’s ago and I’m hoping you’ll consider..”

“Consider what?”

“A truce of sorts.”

And I will hold onto you…

#ask #answered #thanks anon #klaroline drabbles #misssophiachase #new years day

27 notes · View notes

thingr1 · 5 years

Text

Weighing One’s Worth (1/2)

Rating: T

Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt.

Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne.

Preview: There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?"

Cross posted: FFN and AO3 (1-15-16). (A/N found on both sites)

Prequel: Of Milkshakes and Marathons. (Not necessary to understand story.)

Second Chapter: Here

Sequel: Focus on the Fallout

So you thought you had to keep this up 

All the work that you do so we think that you're good 

And you can't believe it's not enough 

All the walls you built up are just glass on the outside

~"Healing Begins" by Tenth Avenue North

There were good nights. There were bad nights. There were somewhere in between nights. There were great nights. There were horrible nights. And then there were nights when you really began to wonder if it was really even worth the fight at all.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Everyone copes with things differently. Tim? Well, he typically ended up curled up in the tiny space between his bed and the wall, cynically considering his options. One of which included a handgun tucked away in a shoebox under the floorboards.

A handgun that now found itself hanging heavy in his hand.

There were definitely other, less violent ways to end it all. Downing a couple pills, braining himself on the bedside table, slitting his wrists and bleeding out on the bathroom floor... But Tim didn't need any more time to think. Nothing was faster or more efficient than a bullet to the head. It was also less painful, though he tried not to think about the selfishness of that.

Not to mention the irony of using a gun, the start of Batman's career and, in essence, the beginning of Red Robin's.

Tim had thought it through. He had never been one to rush into something, especially such a life-changing—he held back a snort—decision as the one he was about to make.

The best part? No one even knew what Tim really felt.

Because Tim was an expert liar. Actually, better than expert. It came as naturally to him as breathing. He supposed that should probably disturb him, but it didn't. It happened to be a very useful skill in the face of nosy coworkers, friends, and relatives. Lies were nearly always easier to face than the truth.

Hiding his true feelings was one such lie. Facades and masks defined him, his true emotions corked tightly within a bottle inside, never ever to see the light of day; only the waning moonlight filtering through the curtains of his apartment, or, at the moment, his Wayne Manor bedroom. This practice of falsehood had extended to himself, almost so he was convinced he was okay; that he could handle the horrible stress and pain that was life.

He remembered the time when he'd hated the lying involved with the mask: to his father, to his friends, wanting nothing more than to give them a straight answer for once. But now...

Well. There comes a time when even the best liars start to crack.

And if Tim was being honest (haha), he lied to himself as often, if not more frequently than he did to his friends and...family.

Could he even call them his family? Sure, it was all down on paper, but just like blood, ink wasn't what made a family family.

His fingers ghosted over the safety mechanism, hesitating before flicking it off.

Replacement. Pretender.

At least Jason knew what Tim really was.

Tim had practically forced his way into this secret life in his desperation to be Robin after Jason's death. He had never been Robin; not really. He had been (still was) unwanted and unchosen. The outsider in Bruce's hand-picked family. Why should he even bother sticking around if no one had ever really wanted him in the first place?

A harsh laugh escaped his throat. After all the pain, all the danger, all the narrow escapes brought on by patrolling the streets of Gotham, the mighty Red Robin was going to go down via a handgun by his own volition. The irony.

Rock steady, he raised the gun barrel to his temple, the cold tip pressing against his scalp. He couldn't fight this feeling anymore. It was better for everyone this way. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his finger around the trigger.

"Drake!" called a familiar voice, shattering the previous silence as Tim's room door flew open (hadn't Tim locked it?) and slammed into the opposite wall. Before Tim could overcome his shock and slide the gun under the bed, footsteps echoed across the room.

"Grayson is..." The pompous voice trailed off, a tiny shadow stretching along the wall pausing at the foot of the bed as its owner halted his footsteps.

There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?" Damian asked carefully, cynically—uncaringly.

"It's...it's not what it looks like," Tim managed, cheeks flushing at being caught by the brat, of all people. Well...the brat was better than Bruce or Dick. At least Damian wouldn't try to stop him. "Go away."

"It looks like you're about to do something either profoundly smart, or ridiculously stupid," Damian said, completely ignoring Tim's last statement.

"And why would you care?" Tim countered, finally glaring up at the smaller boy.

Crystal blue eyes stared down at him, not a single emotion crossing the 10-year-old's face. He didn't respond.

The minutes ticked by, Tim's initial discomfort being overcome by anger at Damian's lack of response. "Look," he snapped, "my business is my business. You can stay or go away, I don't care. But staring at me won't get you anywhere."

No reply. Well, he'd given him a chance.

Damian watched him in continued silence, eyes narrowed as Tim double-checked the safety was off, raising the barrel to his head.

Briefly, Tim wondered if this was really appropriate to be doing in front of a 10-year-old. He immediately dismissed the thought. This was a baby assassin who'd been killing since birth and who'd been not-so-secretly wishing Tim's demise since the day they'd met. To him, this would be a show.

Why not go out entertaining the brat? If he couldn't satisfy his peers, why not the son?

His finger tensed on the trigger.

"Stop."

Tim flinched at the sound. It wasn't quite an order. Damian almost sounded...young. Like his age, for once.

"If you're insistent upon doing this," Damian said, tone deceptively flat, "you'd better have a good reason, Drake."

Tim blinked. "It's not that simple."

Damian folded his arms over his chest. "I've got time."

Surprised, Tim hesitated. The truth pressed up against the lies, squeezing under his skin and begging to be set free. But after all these years, could he really just let them go? "No one would notice if I was gone anyway," he murmured, bidding for time.

Raising an eyebrow, Damian said, "Care to elaborate?"

Before Tim could make up his mind whether to actually answer the brat or not, his mouth decided for him: "From the beginning, Bruce never chose me as his Robin. I had to force him to take me on, to give me a chance. Heck, even Dick didn't want me to be Robin. I had to earn the right to the role."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, taking a shaky breath. "In a way, I was proud. Dick and Jason became Robin because Batman picked them, trained them, taught them everything he knew because he wanted to. I proved myself to him, showed him I could do everything...well, nearly everything that Dick and Jason could do and live to tell the tale. But that came at a price: Bruce refused to accept me completely as his partner.

"To him, I was—am—just an expendable asset, another soldier in his endless, self-driven crusade. I don't think I ever made the rank of equal in his eyes. Not like Dick and Jason did."

Impassive blue eyes stared down at him. Tim imagined he heard the brat mutter under his breath, "That's not true," but Tim was already launching into his next justification, unable to stop the flow of words now that he'd finally loosened the cork on his pent up emotions.

"I'm just a packhorse. The one in charge of all the projects nobody wants to do. Even as I sit here, the work keeps piling up. I just can't deal with all this anymore. Patrol, Wayne Enterprises, the Teen Titans, Bruce's cases..." He closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his free hand into his eye, fighting back the overwhelming pressure of panic squeezing his heart. "Too much. Nothing I do is enough, never satisfy anyone, never good enough. I can't..." He huffs, breath hitching slightly on the intake. "As you've kindly pointed out on multiple occasions, no one will even notice when my incompetency is gone."

Out of breath, he glared at the 10-year-old mulishly. "And why am I telling you all this? You never wanted me to exist in the first place."

Damian made no move to either confirm or deny that fact. Not that it mattered. Tim could practically see the gears turning in his little head as the demon attempted to drop the blame on someone else.

"Nobody will miss me much," Tim said matter-of-factly, hammering the final nail in his own coffin. "I mean, they might be sad for awhile, but they'll get over it."

There was a tense silence, two pairs of blue eyes glaring stoically into each other.

"Father will mourn you till the day he dies," Damian stated flatly, startling Tim at the sudden interruption from the formerly impassive boy. "Grayson will go crazy with guilt and grief, berating himself for not being a better big brother before he falls apart completely. Todd will blow a gasket and murder every criminal in Arkham. Cain would distance herself and spend years trying to figure out where she went wrong. Pennyworth's heart would break into a million pieces—again." The young hero fixed Tim with a glare worthy of the Bat. "And I would hate you for destroying our family with your selfishness."

Tim swallowed thickly, hesitating. "You already hate me," he offered weakly.

Damian tutted. "What does my opinion matter? You have won the affections of Grayson, my father, and a whole team of young superheroes. Not to mention Cain and Todd. What do you think the latter two would do if they caught you like this?"

Tim winced at the mental picture.

"Especially Superboy," Damian added. Then, not quite an afterthought: "Even I don't actually hate you."

At that, Tim shot him an incredulous look.

"That much," the baby assassin corrected.

Their eyes locked, blue on blue; one pair challenging, the other stubbornly stoic.

Tim huffed. "Fine." He allowed the barrel of the gun to drop, swinging it to face the wall. "Funk over. You can go now."

"Give me the gun, Drake."

Tim blinked. "Why?"

Damian snorted. "If you're truly not planning on blowing your idiotic brains out the moment I step out of this room, then give. Me. The gun."

Tim hesitated. It couldn't be that simple...could it?

No. It was too late. Damian already knew, so if Tim didn't go through with this he'd run the very high risk of the rest of the Bats finding out. Tim didn't think he could stand that; he could practically see the disappointment in Bruce's eyes as yet another of his soldiers failed his mission...

Almost absently, he buried the gun barrel back into his hair. His finger tensed on the trigger.

Missing nothing, Damian's eyes flared. "Very well, Drake," he announced imperiously. "If you're going, you're going to have to take me with you." Before Tim could blink, a knife was in the child's hand, the gleaming tip pressed against Damian's jugular.

"If you refuse to believe everyone—and I mean everyone—will miss you, think of what my father and Grayson would do if they saw me dead," Damian challenged. "And don't think for one second I won't go through with it if you dare pull that trigger, Drake."

Of all the ways this could have gone down from the moment Damian walked through the door, Tim would never have thought of this outcome in a million years.

Tim blinked slowly.

But no. Damian still stood before him, the razor sharp knife pressing dangerously into his own neck, an almost wild glint in his eyes.

"Because people will miss you, Drake," Damian continued in a strange, almost choked tone. "I only have Grayson and father. But you...you've got actual friends and family who love you not because of what you can do, but just because you're you. And that's good enough for them."

Blinking rapidly, Damian's eyes seemed to be shining a little brighter in the lowlight.

"They accept you for who you are, and when you make a mistake, they forgive you," he continued with a barely noticeable sniff. "They cry with you when you are sad, and laugh along when you are happy. If that's not love, then my interpretations of the concept are inaccurate. And I am never wrong."

"Damian," Tim sighed shakily. "You don't know what you're doing. Put the knife down."

"No, it's you who doesn't know what you're doing, Drake," Damian growled. "If you die, everyone is going to shatter with you. And if the only way to make you see sense is to threaten my own life, then so be it."

Tim stared. And then it clicked. "You're trying to guilt trip me," he realized.

Damian smirked savagely, a sick, twisted little smile that had no place on such a young face. "I refuse to let you break this family," he said levelly. "It's the only family I have left. So you remove your fingers from that gun, and I'll drop the knife. It's that simple."

Tim hesitated. The gun suddenly seemed very there in his hand; the solid weight of the warming barrel pressed against his head and tickling his scalp, the pad of his finger wrapped around the trigger. He became aware of every breath in his lungs hissing through his larynx to his nose, of his heart beating slightly faster in his chest. All of his body parts functioning as one in a beautiful creation for the sole purpose of keeping Tim alive.

Doubt crept in at the edges for the first time since he'd made his life-changing—ha, still funny the second time 'round—decision. Maybe...maybe this wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Staring up at Damian, Tim could swear the demon's lower lip was trembling slightly. "Go ahead," the boy challenged, steel blue eyes sending him a silent challenge over the glistening edge of the knife digging into his skin. "Prove how much of a coward you are, Drake. Do it."

Blood pumping through his veins, hairs on the back of his neck bristling at a phantom chill, sweat trickling down his forehead, sweater rubbing irritatingly along his collar bone...

The family would be devastated at another death, especially if it was at Tim's own hands rather than an actual Gotham villain. After all, yourself wasn't supposed to be included as a "flight risk."

Damian was right. Tim was a selfish coward. Selfish to believe that his death would affect no one, that his work would take care of itself if he were gone. A coward because he was desperate enough to try and take the easy way out rather than suck it up and face his mountain of problems.

Maybe...maybe he didn't have to go through life alone.

If Damian, of all people—the one who'd tried to kill him when they'd first met, the one who threatened to murder him on a weekly basis, the one who daily insulted Tim's very existence—was trying to talk him out of it...

He cared. To some degree, the one Tim was sure hated his guts cared whether Tim lived or died.

And at that moment, Tim had never felt more alive.

Almost numb, his grip loosened on the weapon, fingers shaking as his muscles mushed into jelly.

Before he'd dropped it hardly an inch, the gun was snatched from his hands, the former assassin snapping open the cartridge and emptying the bullets onto the floor with one quick motion. With a look of utter distaste, Damian tossed the weapon into the corner, along with the knife that had somehow slipped past both Bruce's and Alfred's scrutiny.

Silently, Damian dropped to the floor at Tim's side. What he did next took Tim a moment to process: the Bat's son scooted closer, leaning forward and pressing his cheek against Tim's chest, even as one arm snaked around Tim's middle to grasp firmly at the fabric of Tim's sweater.

Tim stared. Damian...was cuddling?

The bundle of assassin huddled at his side radiated heat, slowly warming against Tim's side. He hadn't realized how cold he was until the little furnace decided to crawl up next to him.

It was...nice.

"Don't kill yourself," Damian whispered, so low Tim could barely hear him. "I would never forgive myself."

Not Dick. Not Bruce. Damian would never forgive himself.

"You've been spending too much time with Dick," Tim managed weakly.

"Tt. Just shut up and go to sleep, Drake."

#Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #Batfic #My fic #old fic #Batman (comics)#Angst #Hurt/Comfort #sort of #Depression #Suicidal Thoughts #Suicide Attempt #r1fics #RascalJoy #rascalsoldfics #Where the Healing Begins (Fix You)

5 notes · View notes

theliterateape · 4 years

Text

The Troubling Ballad of Cowboy Bob

by Don Hall

In fifty-four years of traipsing about on the planet, I can’t recall a single time I requested to speak to the manager. I can only remember one or two times in that span that I chose to call the police to diffuse a situation. Probably a few more times than that when I was actively hostile to a service worker and then mostly on the phone which each time was followed by a sincere apology.

Perhaps I’m a doormat when it comes to getting the wrong order or not receiving the expected service in these situations but I genuinely do not comprehend that impulse when confronted with these circumstances.

No one should be required to suffer abuse at the hands of a disgruntled customer and no one getting minimum wage should have their employment held over their head for refusing to take shit while simply trying to do their job.

We called him Cowboy Bob. It wasn’t his name but I dubbed him that the first time I encountered him and the name stuck for not only the casino staff but also with many of our regulars who despised him.

That first meeting was on a Sunday before the pandemic. It was football season and the Sportsbook was packed with bettors sitting in the big chairs watching multiple games on the fifteen or so large screen televisions. Drinks were flowing and we were training a new bartender. She was a slip of a woman, twenty-three or so, and not quite used to the rough crowd at the West.

Allegra, one of my regular bartenders and not someone to be fucked with, approached me.

“Myra’s crying because that asshole,” and she pointed to a middle-aged guy with a goatee and a white cowboy hat sitting in the front row with a female friend by his side, “that asshole has been barking at her all morning. Every time she brings a drink he has an issue, insults her, and when I went over to talk to him he called me a bitch for even saying something.”

There are a few things that piss me off while wearing my managerial hat but someone verbally abusing my hardworking, low-paid staff is at the top of that festering list. I stroll over to the dude, squat down so we are on eye-level, and quietly let him in on the skinny.

“Can I have a word? Seems like you’re in a foul mood and are being kind of hostile to my bar staff...no, hold on. I’ll let you explain if you want. Let me finish. Here’s the deal — I’m no fan of that behavior as I’m sure you are not as well so I want to present you with a choice, OK?

You can either apologize to both my bartenders for your rude behavior and if they believe it, they might continue serving you and your lady friend drinks today. Or, you can double down, refuse to apologize and the result will be that you can enjoy our casino any time you like but you will never be served as much as a glass of ice for the rest of your life while in here.

Whaddya think, Cowboy Bob?”

You could see his anger and frustration bubbling up in different areas of his face, neck, and hands as he wrestled with his response. I never took my eyes off of his as he decided. Finally, he rose, turned to Myra and Allegra and offered his apology with the counter apology that if they weren’t so busy perhaps they’d get his drinks right. But, dontcha know, he understood.

The ladies decided to continue serving him drinks and he subsequently tipped them generously for each drink (more to save face with his date than anything I said but the effect was the same).

The next time Bob came in, he was all smiles to me. He roped me into conversations about how I was the best manager around and that I should be running the place. Cowboy Bob was a Time Share Salesman. He was apparently pretty good at it as he routinely told me his monthly earnings but always with the caveat that he could’ve done much better but the other people in his office were incompetent.

He still “called for the manager” when someone took too long with his drink or at the gift shop when he bought a snack but, as I was that manager, things rarely got out of hand. He had an inside manager in his perspective.

As time progressed he opened up and shared with me how he really didn’t get along with anyone he worked with. In lieu of jumping down the throats of my staff, he’d bring me over to give me advice about that bitch at the cage or the cunt in the Sportsbook. He advocated that I, the best manager in the place, should fire these people because they just didn’t get it.

On one occasion, he informed me that he could sue the casino and the dippy bitch at the gift shop for selling him a bag of potato chips he ate and then got diarrhea. Mind you, these were the fucked up flavored kettle chips — something like pickle brine and pork chop flavor — but he went into detail about how he could sue but wouldn’t because he wasn’t that kind of guy.

Once in awhile, I tried to crack into him and find out what the deal was with the routine mistreatment of those whom he saw as requiring deference to him and his whims.

Granted, assigning motivations is tricky business. Therapists are paid for it and they don’t even know what the fuck they’re doing. You ever meet a professional therapist without some paste fetish or completely dysfunctional relationship with their parents? That said, Cowboy Bob struck me as a conservative guy with a chip on his shoulder.

His work history, as he shared it, was filled with asshole co-workers and women bosses who didn’t get him. It seemed that he got along with absolutely no one he’d worked with in years. He was a low-key kind of bigot who had figured out he couldn’t call the Asian guy in the casino a jap or the black porter a darkie so he trucked in subtle stereotyping instead. All clothed in the kind of language that sounded very corporate yet damning at the same time.

I, like almost everyone in the place, didn’t much care for Cowboy Bob but we were in our honeymoon period and it was better to have to listen to him drone on than have him verbally attack my staff so I took it for the team.

[CUT TO PANDEMIC, THREE-MONTH SHUTDOWN, AND A LOSS OF SPORTS TO BET ON]

We re-opened the casino but sports was pretty much cancelled so we didn’t see Bob around.

Then one day, once football started up:

“Security to M.O.D. I have a guest threatening to sue me personally for harassment because I ask him to put on his mask.”

“Copy that. On my way.”

Of course it was CB. And of course he pulled me aside to complain. He was agitated and sweaty.

“Can I have a minute? Yeah. I understand that Black Lives Matter and all that stuff but All Lives Matter, you know? All Lives not just black ones and I need to tell you that your security guard? The fat one over there? He’s just, well, maybe too enthusiastic with his job. I mean, I’m just trying to watch a football game and he’s up in my face about this mask thing...”

“Bob. That’s his job. Were you wearing your mask?”

“So, wait a minute, you’re just going to ignore how he made me feel by telling me this is all my fault? Because that’s not about service, that’s about control.”

“Bob, he doesn’t bother anyone who’s wearing a mask. You gotta wear it. We want to stay open and them’s the rules.”

“So this is now about control? Is that what you’re saying? You’re trying to control me, Don, and...” He went on for at least two straight minutes. I finally held up my hand.

“Just wear your mask, Bob. That’s it. No mask, you have to leave.”

“Are we done? Are we done? Are you done talking already? I’m just trying to watch a football game and I’m not doing that because, why? Why? So you can defend an illegal thing to control me and a fat guard? I’m here to watch a football game.”

“Then watch your fucking game, dude!”

“Well, then. You just used profanity. I’ll be contacting corporate about that.”

“Groovy. Now put your mask on or your can watch it someplace that’s not right here.”

“AND you threatened me. Profanity and a threat. Great professionalism.”

“Bob?”

“What?”

“Stuff it up your ass, OK?”

He stayed, mask on, throughout the game. My security officer watched him like a hawk to make sure that fucking mask was on tight.

I’ll never really understand the weird entitled instincts to use the phrases “I need to see your manager” and “I’m calling corporate” but watch enough Public Freakout YouTubes and it’s not hard to see how much an outlier I am in this regard.

Not long ago, I wrote that we’ve all become ‘Karen’ and it’s true. Perhaps the digital age has conditioned us to be the asshole who wants someone fired as punishment for shattering his protected worldview of personal autonomy. Maybe we’ve always been this way and the onslaught of undeterred opinions swarming around us makes us want to punish those around us not convinced of our divine right to a perfect bag of chips.

In an imperfect world a bit of leeway should probably be given to those employed to serve us. Managers should do their best to balance the needs of the guests and the rights of their staff. I’m amazed at these petty minded people who demand to see the manager, think that ‘calling corporate’ is a credible threat, who use the power of their patronage to cancel others.

I’m amazed but unimpressed.

I hope Cowboy Bob goes to another Sportsbook and haunts it’s staff but I’m pretty sure he’ll be back. Every place has a Cowboy Bob and he’s mine, I suppose.

#casino life #toxic customers #we are all karen

0 notes

capicide · 6 years

Text

A New Beginning

Life is funny. We don’t ask for it but we can’t give it up. It is something of a disease and cure both. It is pain and pleasure all wrapped in one package. You can’t separate the two from each other and every time you get a taste of one, the other one undoubtedly will attach itself to your taste buds. I hear the reason for it is to have greater appreciation of one and reduce despair while experiencing the other.

I experienced pain this year due to an event. It may seem trivial to some but for an immigrant boy who is trying really hard to create a place for himself and craft an identity, it was really hard. Because, my whole worth was being judged and ultimately rejected. I was told I have nothing to offer to a country despite all the time and money I had spent living and contributing to it. Sure, the pain wasn’t physical but it hurt me deeply. I am used to having no information about the future and constantly living one day at a time but this unfortunate event happened when I was just feeling comfortable in my skin. When I was feeling that I have found myself and finally made myself the hero of my own story. So, when the declaration came, I realized this story does not have a structure yet and I was wrong to assume it ever had. This meant that I had to start writing again. Like I said, I am not a stranger to to having to rewrite my own story multiple times but suddenly I felt weak. I felt my arms could not move, my legs would not lift from the ground, my body could not respond to my brain, and the only thing I was capable of doing was breathing. Breathe in and out, breathe in and out. And then, the world went silent and dark. The only sound was the sound of my breathing. Of course, to others, I was the same. I talked to people, went to work, hung out with my friends. But I was alone. Deaf, blind, crippled, and alone. Maybe it shouldn’t have hit me this hard. Maybe, as everyone else says, I should’ve thought about the millions who are smarter than I am but cannot be in my situation because they simply can’t afford it. Those thoughts did not comfort me one bit. If anything, it hurt me more. By emphasizing that there are many others who should be in my shoes but can’t, my self worth got diminished even more because it highlighted my incompetence to seize an opportunity properly. Soon, I started hating myself. The breathing sound which was a sign of relief that I am still alive turned into a frustrating noise bothering me with its insistence on being present. I did not want it. I wanted it gone. But I couldn’t snuff it out myself and no accident happened to cause it. Eventually, I was in a self-hating and deprecating loop:

I hate myself because I am too weak and I should die. I can’t die because I am too weak to kill myself. I hate myself because I am too weak.

When thoughts like that make a nest inside your head, there is not much you can do. You can either succumb to the pain or do nothing and be numb. I chose the latter because I am too much of a coward, to my dismay, to do anything to myself. Also, there was a sparkle of hope. There were talks of another work opportunity, somewhere where I could find my self-worth again if I was willing to be patient. And so I waited and waited. The things is after feeling numb and being numb for some time, that becomes your natural state and you become comfortable with it and don’t mind it as much. But soon, you feel like your body is shutting down. You feel sleepy and being too anxious to sleep at the same time. To keep it short, I was uncomfortable and willing to do anything including to die just so I had a purpose. But news came that the opportunity is coming to fruition and the caveat is that I have to take huge risk in order to see it till the end. I would have to leave the place to which I came with a modicum of hope and dream to create a life worth living, possibly forever.

For once, in a long while, I have the strange but familiar feeling of being hopeful. I think the chances of this opportunity ending in success is actually high. But, this means I have to start creating life elsewhere and rewrite my story or add a huge twist to it without provoking the audience too much.

I have spent 5 years in Sweden and now I have the chance to go to Canada and work at a bigger company. This could lead to huge successes and it could be a total bust. But having a goal, regardless of the odds of reaching it, is much better than being in a limbo state for a long time. This should make me happy. And it has. I have more energy, I can sleep longer hours without waking up in the middle of the night. But, I feel sad. And it’s not being sad about leaving a familiar place and going towards the unknown. I’m actually quite excited about it. Sad about losing someone. Someone very special whom I met a couple of years ago. A shy person, someone hard to get to open up but full of life and excitement. A person who taught me so many important things in life which I will always cherish. An introvert woman with barriers but also willing to try new things. I spent not enough time with her but those rare occasions were all very special. Rarely you meet someone so intelligent that you feel like you are getting smarter just by talking to them and she was like that. My regret is that possibly, I will not see her again. She won’t be a character in my story anymore. She will be one of those characters who had had large role in the beginning but began to fade out in the middle because they had fulfilled their role of helping grow the protagonist or move the plot forward. I don’t want that to be true. I want her to make a dramatic return in later chapters and become a main character overshadowing the protagonist with her charisma and wit. But the harsh truth is we forget. We forget tragedies to able to cope and keep living and we forget kindness to able to accept more. I will forget her and she will forget me. Soon, the only time I will remember her is when someone or something reminds me of a familiar feeling and I would have to search really hard until to unceremoniously reach the conclusion that there was this girl with whom I have this memory. Soon, I will forget her name and she will forget mine. I know people say it’s impossible to be out of touch with friends because of social media. But as you grow older and your mind gets occupied with storing new memories, it is only rational that older ones fade away to nothing. Therefore, I am quite sad that day will inevitably comes. Sure, I can still be in contact but there will be no possibility of growth.

As the title says, it is a new beginning for me. With six months of despair and sadness passed, I am feeling hopeful once again. I am wary of the consequences of disappointment whilst being optimist but is worth it. So, once again I am going full speed towards the unknown. I did it once and kept going for five years. Hope this time it goes on for longer. Who knows? Maybe I will find my way to her one day. Maybe not. I am just glad I got to meet and have a friendship with such an awesome character. She will do great things in her story. And I am ready to have a small positive impact on mine. After all, the stories are just starting.

Signing Off!

#relationship #friendship #depression #hope #fear #despair #light

1 note · View note