10008/PoG: Bat-ermath

PoG: Bat-ermath
Date of Scene:	06 February 2022
Location:	Family Room - Wayne Manor
Synopsis:	Phoebe and Tim spend time in the Family Room of Wayne Manor, on mandated recover on orders of Batman. Light things are discussed, other things are discussed, Phoebe's fear of sitting on furnature is somewhat resolved, and Phoebe turns in her adoption papers to Bruce Wayne himself, who welcomes her to the Wayne family. Phoebe and Tim briefly discuss a Super Sentai Robin team, and then proceed to act like siblings and be obnoxious to the tune of a bunch of Audley End items with Mrs. Crocombe references being shipped to the manor.
Cast of Characters:	Phoebe Beacon, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne

---

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    After getting in last night, there was no debriefing, no updating. Just two exhausted young heroes taking off their assorted armor, wounds tended to -- even Phoebe, who was so burnt out that her own healing ability wasn't keeping up with bumps and bruises she had received while flinging herself at Tim to deliver a legendary hug.

    And then sleep. Wrapped in blankets and in possibly the safest place Gotham City had to offer, and for the first time in months, Phoebe let herself exhaustedly fall to actual sleep.

    So late the next day, she had quietly wandered through the halls, and was sitting on the floor of the family room, her back against a couch, a tablet balanced on her knees. She was wrapped in a purple blanket with pink tassels, picked up from Quito weeks ago, wearing socks covered with pineapples, and super-soft pajama pants with NO PROBLLAMA scrawled on them, with various rainbow colored llamas fluffing about a navy background.

    She's raided the kitchen, carefully, leaving no sign of her passing save the suddenly missing account of some apples and oranges and a bowl, which sit at her side. She's not wearing any sort of earbuds, so the sounds of vintage-style modern songs rings out as she reads.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    PHoebe is also wearing a gray hat with cat ears and long, downward tassels, and a friendly, simplified feline face on it, to hide the absolute mess of her hair, that she hasn't bothered to rebraid yet.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim barely remembers the trip back to Gotham. Maybe it was on the Batplane? The details are fuzzy, though he does remember Alfred's careful fretting as the Wayne family butler looked him over upon arrival. And there wasn't much to see, aside for several speckled burn marks on his face from where Metatron's boiling archangel blood had splashed up onto him from the gauntlet.

    No other real physical signs of what has been a harrowing series of weeks away from home. Just some bruising, soreness, and bone-deep lethargy that sees Tim sleeping through the night and well into the next day. He's been running on caffeine and energy top-ups from Phoebe's aura for so long that he's not even sure when the last time he slept. By the time Tim makes it down the stairs to the main floor, he's tired all over again.

    Oversleep syndrome. His energy levels boomeranged all the way around from fully rested and back to exhaustion again. Nothing a strong cup of coffee can't solve, though.

    He makes use of the fancy machine in the kitchen, his presence announced by the distant whirr of grinding beans. Eventually the smell of coffee announces his arrival in the family room, as he appears carrying a tray. Atop it, two cappuccinos and a plate with a couple of pastries Tim's swiped, still hot from the oven, from a cooling rack.

    "Oh no, are we on the level of floor brooding? What'd I miss?" Tim has his own blanket souvenir from Quito (red, of course) draped over his shoulders, and he has to fuss with it a little bit to ensure the tassles don't end up in their drinks as he sets the tray down on the nearby coffee table. He's in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt dug up from the back of the closet in his room here at the manor.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "It's like you don't even know meeeeeee." Phoebe protests with a roll of her eyes up wards as she looks to Tim with a tired smile. She still has bags under her eyes. Her normal aura of Well-Being wasn't as strong as it was usually when unbound, but she was still tired out.

    "I'm pretty sure this couch costs more than the rent on my apartment. I'd hate to ruin it with my butt." she sticks her tongue out at Tim. "Just... looking at..." she looks down, and then she purses her lips.

    "... I got the papers Bruce gave me notrized. He just has to have someone turn them into the office of records and have a judge sign off." she states quietly, looking over to Tim.

    "And then you're stuck with me not only as your best friend, but also, legally, your sister."

Tim Drake has posed:
    A series of sympathetic noises accompanies Tim picking up a cup and saucer from the tray and offering it to Phoebe. It's a poor attempt at butlering, really; Alfred would manage to sound sincere and yet somehow disapproving at the same time, and all Tim can manage is vaguely agreeable.

    Then he sits his butt right on the couch that, yes, no doubt costs somewhere in the five-figure range. Tim spreads his blanket across his lap like he's an old man settling in for a nap. "Well, if you're going to be a Wayne, better get used to it. Or what, are you going to sit on the floor for the rest of your life?" He clucks his tongue just before blowing the steam away from his own cappuccino so that he can take a sip. Yes, it's scorching hot, but Tim's mouth is basically impervious at this point. "Alfred won't appreciate that at dinner time," he adds.

    One of the pastries--some kind of apple danish by the looks of it--ends up on the saucer in Tim's lap, too. "I don't pretend to know what made up Bruce's mind about it, but if there's anyone in the world who deserves to have the good things that come along with being a Wayne, it's you, Phoebe." Then Tim breaks off a corner of the danish, eyeing it for a moment before popping it into his mouth, ignoring any potential crumb fallout that might end up on this outrageously expensive couch. He chews, swallows, and then adds, "Maybe that's why he offered," with a shrug.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Already panicking about which fork to use." Phoebe replies playfully, and she accepts the coffee, holding the saucer as proper and sipping. Coffee, magical bean tincture, lie to us about how productive we'll be in the near future. Amen. "If I'm sitting at the floor under the table, maybe he won't see me?" she jokes, and she gives a small smile.

    "He asked while I was setting up the workshop at Grand Central, and mentioned that living alone wasn't doing me any favors. Since I have a tendency to use my Bat-inspired armor to do Bat-related activites around Gotham, he wanted to make sure I was doing it right." she leans back, and removes her hat.

    She has not rebraided her hair yet, so it is Au Natural, the cottony coils and kinks of her dark hair sticking up all over the place, with a natural side-part.

    "Or maybe someone told him about my 'Theoretical Evil Phoebe' file where I had cursed sections of Robinson Park for a mystic murderous chess game."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Alfred sees all," Tim says, his voice dropping into ominous levels for a beat. But then back to normal with, "You're really going to miss out on Alfred's cooking because you're afraid of sitting on the furniture?" He lifts an eyebrow, and though he's lightly poking fun, he does tilt his head to the side to acknowledge Phoebe's reasons for her hesitancy.

    His attention strays away, gaze focused on some undefined point out in the hallway through the open doors. For a moment his cup remains halfway between its saucer and his mouth as Tim blinks, silent and contemplative.

    Though when he snaps back to the conversation, he doesn't so much as reply to the mention of Robinson Park and a potential face-heel turn in Phoebe's future. Instead he just clears his throat, frowning down at his cappuccino. "If there's any question on the validity of your training, I'll handle it. Not saying you wouldn't benefit from learning under someone new--variety's the spice of life or whatever, right?--but we've done good work together." Tim takes another sip and then swipes his tongue over his lip to chase away milk foam. Which he maybe went a little too heavy on for these drinks to really count as cappuccinos. "I have no doubts about that."

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Bruce hasn't been seen since the Batplane landed. The large craft had been able to alter itself in mid-air, taking on the appearance of a Wayne Enterprises-owned private jet before landing at an airfield outside of Gotham City. Bruce had put them in a car bound for the Manor and then gone off on his own. Whatever it was he was doing, wherever he had to be, he hadn't seen fit to share it.

When he enters the room now, he's no longer in his uniform. Instead, he wears a high-necked cable-knit sweater of dark navy blue. He's shaved. His black hair (with greys he refuses to let vanity get the better of him over) has been clipped and neatly combed. He's hardly the sleepless, scruffy man that had been standing vigil over Manhattan for the better part of a month.

He carries a mug in one hand that bears the epithet 'World's Okay-est Dad', filled with coffee. He pauses in the doorway, takes a step, and then regards the pair.

"I hope you're resting."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... not your training, Tim. I couldn't have asked for a better mentor when I was getting into this. You went from being 'superhero who saved a girl trying to birdwatch' to 'best friend and staff mentor', still my favorite sparring parter, no one else I would want watching my back in a pin--" she pauses as Bruce enters the room, and it takes everything in her to not stand at some sort of attention. She wasn't sure how things worked, so instead she holds the cappaccino half-way to her mouth, and her open mouth closes with a soft 'pop', and she looks to the mug. ANd then looks to Tim. And then back to Bruce.

    "Taking the day off pretty completely." she confirms.

Tim Drake has posed:
    If Tim's surprised by Bruce's entrance into the room, he doesn't let it on. Though that's likely more attributable to long years of practice than any actual awareness he might have had prior.

    He raises his cup to his mouth again, and then after, uses it to gesture to the blanket in his lap. "Doing my best 'old man spending an afternoon in the park' impression here. Might even play some chess later." Though the glance he gives Bruce as he speaks is subtle, that only counts for other people. No doubt Bruce picks up on Tim giving him a quick check-over before looking way.

    While Bruce may have put himself together already, Tim's... in progress. He's still got pock-marks on his face from Metatron's boiling blood and his bedhead is truly the stuff of legends (or 90s era comic artists).

    "I'm trying to convince Phoebe here that she's not going to ruin the furniture just by sitting on it." Fully throwing his bestie under the bus, here. "Though if something were to happen, it's not a big deal."

    Tim looks away. Best not to get into all the myraid of occasions where one of the Bat-brood have been the cause of various furnishing-related damages around the manor.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Try a week," Bruce tells Phoebe with the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth, "You've done your part. You need rest. Those muscles won't grow unless you give them time to do it."

It's unlikely he's talking about actual muscles. More likely the training and experience gained by operating in a warzone for so long.

"You, too, Tim. Red Robin or not, if you're staying here then you're under my roof. The Outsiders can live without you for a few days."

Bruce takes a few steps towards Phoebe, sitting on the back of the couch with the mug resting in his hand.

"Did you give any thought to what we discussed?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    " -- actually muscle fiber repairs the same way in me, just at a faster pace. if I don't concentrate on healing myself then just the augmented healing rate repairs the muscles for better strength and lack of lactic acid build up means physically I don't get exhausted as easi--" she pauses. And she looks up at Bruce with alarm as she realizes a week off. She's never had a full week. THe closest thing was Quito, and she ended up having to spiritually punch a conquistador in the face.

    Tim has the best side-quests.

    "I don't know. The Outsiders may have already fallen apart." she offers a wry smile to Tim, and then she reaches for the black folder, and she stands up, blanket worn like a cape. She hands Bruce the black folder with her left hand, holding the blanket with her right and covering her upper arms.

    "Got it notarized the other day. It's just... a little wrinkled."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Bruce tells Phoebe to take a week off, and from his lofty position upon the couch, Tim nods along with that decree. Of course it's immediately a different story when Bruce turns it on him too, and Tim audibly stumbles over a couple of objections before he subsides.

    "Well," he says at length. "If they haven't managed to blow up the Roost yet, then they'll probably be fine for another week." Tim grumbles the tiniest bit into his cappuccino, but with his other hand he pulls out his cell phone and starts tapping at the screen. Telling the Outsiders not to wait up for him, maybe. Or checking in to see whether or not the Roost is, in fact, still standing upright.

    He watches the interaction between Bruce and Phoebe out of the corner of his eye. It'd be impossible for him not to listen in, given where he's sitting, but Tim is also just not the type to make a show of not eavesdropping. Because he's absolutely eavesdropping. That's just who he is as a person.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"In that case," Bruce says, pushing off of the couch and setting the mug down atop a coaster on the coffee table, "I'd like to welcome you officially to the family."

He moves over towards where Phoebe stands and takes a knee in front of her, reaching out for a hand though taking care not to force it. Should she pull away, he doesn't let a reaction show on his face.

"Tim and I are glad to have you here. Truly. You'll hear jokes, but at the end of the day this is an important decision that I didn't make lightly. You deserve the opportunities that you can get here. It may be too late to be a regular teenager, but we can make sure you're a whole one."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe looks awkwardly at Bruce as he pushes off the couch, and her eyes go to Tim first, half panic. New social event, not sure about the cues -- what do?! She echoes Bruce's movement as he sets his mug down, putting her cap mug back down on its saucer again, and as Bruce offers his hand out, she looks at it, dark eyes going from half closed to wide. She looks to Bruce, to his face and his eyes, her lips setting in a thin line, tired of having to sort out who might be lying to her, who's taking advantage of her... but she doesn't see it in Bruce's expression. She doesn't see lies and hidden half-truths. Honesty and earnest.

    Her eyes close half way again, and there's the threat of tears. Her mouth opens, trying to formulate something, but there were now ords that could come out. Her shoulders rise, her breath escapes her nose in a harsh huff of breath, but then her hand, covered with callouses and myriad old ink markings and faded Hebrew notes in waterproof ink catching the light reaches out, and she accepts Bruce Wayne's hand.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim tucks his legs up on the couch with him, socked feet hooked over the edge of the cushion. When Phoebe looks over at him, he stares back at her over the rim of his cappuccino. Then he gives her the tiniest of chin lifts, a subtle nod of 'Go on then.' He's silent as the interaction plays out, aside for the faint slurping of coffee that he provides as background accompaniment.

    When Phoebe's eyes mist over with unshed tears, Tim shifts uncomfortably in his seat. But in the end he withholds any comment he might otherwise make. Now's not the time for quipping.

    Not, at least, until Phoebe reaches out and slots her hand into Bruce's. Which is when Tim speaks up finally, to say, "Now you get to pick what color variant of Robin you want to be."

    Then he flashes a cheeky smile that he swiftly hides behind his cup.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
Bruce is far from the world's most emotionally available man. It's certainly improved substantially since he first invited Dick to live here, but not quite in the way that might save on heartache. He clasps Phoebe's hand when she reaches out, running his thumb over the back of it. He doesn't look awkward at the threat of tears, but maybe there's a little uncomfortable something in how his expression doesn't really change from muted affection.

"You've got a room here," he tells her, not glancing at Tim but still aware of the young man in his periphery, "I think it's a good idea to stay. If you want to keep your old home, you can do that, too."

The comment about Robin causes Bruce to draw in his breath thoughtfully.

"That leads me to something I need to discuss."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I... I thought Damian had the Robin mantle right now?" Phoebe ventures, and she presses her lips "You're not forming a sentai group with a giant robot, are you? Because that would make Red Robin the leader, and I can't imagine Dick being part of that nonsense."

    She presses her lips together. She can entirely picture Dick being part of that nonsense.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "God, I wish," Tim muses, his thoughts no doubt overlaid with various blueprints for giant mecha at this very moment. But then he gives a quick shake of his head. "Just a little self-deprecating humor, you know, our generation's stop-gap for mental health crises." Cappuccino and pastry finished, Tim pushes the blanket across his lap aside and sits forward so he can return his cup and saucer to the tray they were brought in on.

    Still leaning forward, he snorts. "Dick would definitely be a part of that nonsense."

    Then Tim pushes himself up onto his feet and somehow manages not to look like the world's largest bruise in the vague shape of a young man that he actually is currently. His eyebrows pinch together at Bruce's mention of something they need to talk about, but he doesn't respond, just tilts his head to the side.

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"Damian has a team to lead in Metropolis," Bruce explains, resisting the urge to add 'of all places' to the end of that sentence, "He's still Robin. He will be, as long as he wants to."

The Wayne Patriarch rises to his feet with a sigh, moving to pick up his mug again and taking a further sip. He's never been much of a coffee drinker, but it became something of a ritual after particularly trying times in the field. Tim would know it well.

"We've already proven with Dick, Jason," a nod to present company, "Tim, that there's room. The world's getting smaller. Damian needs to be a representative for the Family where he is. But Batman still needs a Robin. Dick came up with the idea of a Robin as a means to draw me out of a dark place. Tim recognized that Robin meant hope. Enduring hope."

He gives a sidelong look at Tim, as though to gauge his opinion of the choice.

"I can't think of someone who would fit the role better. But you need to earn it."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I... don't know if I could take on the Robin mantle." Phoebe admits quietly. "I'm not like the others. Tim knows the extent of it better than anyone else." she explains, and she draws her fingertips up, looking at her palms.

    "I'll... I'll think about it." she replies, hesitant, as if not sure if it's a disappointment.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Particularly trying times feels like something of an understatement to Tim, but he's still reeling from that last confrontation in Central Park, and the rage it dredged up in him that he wasn't aware he possessed. His judgment is skewed and he needs to take a step back, so Bruce's recommendation of taking a week off is certainly apt. As Bruce explains, Tim's gaze settles on the tray he's now standing over, and rather than continuing to just... do that, he bends to pick it up. Which means he's now standing here holding a tray instead, which isn't exactly less awkward than what he was doing previously.

    When the offer is made, though, Tim looks up. From Bruce to Phoebe, and he already knows what she's going to say.

    "None of us are like the others." His fingers clench and move, adjusting his grip on the tray in an uneasy shuffle. "In some respects we reflect... certain aspects of Batman himself. For better or worse," and that admission has his shoulders bunching up, because acknowledging some of the darker, more obsessive parts of his personality--traits he and Bruce share, though perhaps in different degrees--is not something Tim is comfortable with. "But that's what happens when you work in close partnership with someone for as long as we all have."

    His expression shutters, though it's just for a brief pause, and then Tim's sighing out an upwards breath that ruffles the hair against his forehead. "There's no job description attached to the title of Robin beyond what you've already been doing, you know. Protect Gotham."

    And with that, he clears his throat and nods towards the hallway, which Tim then exits down through.

    Because otherwise he's just going to keep standing there with that dumb tray in his hands!

Bruce Wayne has posed:
"I'll trust your judgement," Bruce answers, giving her a short nod of his head. A sideways glance is given to Tim, a visual warning not to push things further.

"But Tim is right. You already are Robin, or at least, you're the Robin I would want you to be. All you need is the training, which I know you can handle because you've been handling it."

He nods his head once more, taking another drink from his cup.

"Trust me, trust the Family. But most importantly, trust yourself. You wouldn't be here without that."

He takes a step towards the door, speaking as he disappears through it.

"No rush. Let me know what you think."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    And then Phoebe is left momentarily alone in the family room, with a 1920's tap version of 'Call Me Maybe' drifting from her tablet as she sits on the couch as if she might suddenly break it, and she reaches down to her bowl of fruit, pulling up an orange, and begins to peel it in consideration, her lips pursed.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim returns some moments later, hands still mildly damp from him washing (read: rinsing... sorry, Alfred) his dishes in the sink.

    "So did he pull the disappearing thing on you or did he just walk out?" he asks as he takes up his space on the couch once again. "And be honest: which would have been weirder to you?"

    Also he somehow managed to steal an apple from Phoebe's fruit bowl, which he tosses back and forth in his hands distractedly, his eyes and his focus on Phoebe. Though he doesn't ask after her thoughts on the offer Bruce made.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Oh, he walked out just after you did and went towards the... library? Wait, is this a library, or is this a study? Or a drawing room, where it draws your guests in?" she asks, looking around. "My experience with expansive manor homes comes pretty exclusively from Mrs. Crocombe and Bridgerton." she admits "The House of Mystery only ever let me see like four rooms."

    She leans back, now sitting on the couch, and she pulls the blanket off her. Tim would plainly be able to see the burned-in magical circle on her left arm now, with her handwriting in Heirmatic script. in a square around it.

    It looks like a seal out of Naruto.

    "And honestly, the vanishing thing being done to me is still weird because it's not magic poof."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's eyes go vaguely owlish as he peers around in the direction Phoebe indicates. But he has no answer for her, as Bruce's comings and goings are as much a mystery to him as they are anyone else. "Did you know you can take tours of Audley End and meet her? They have a whole line of preserves too that you can order."

    It's an excellent segue into a new topic of conversation, in his opinion, and Tim's phone is back out. "Do you think the Roost's decor would be improved with our own Tudor door curtain?" he asks as he turns his phone around to point it at Phoebe, showing her the shop site for English Heritage.

    He resumes tapping at the screen, eyes narrowed in concentration, though he does offer up a distant "How do you know it's not magic?" just before he hits 'purchase'.

    Given how often he does this kind of thing, Phoebe can probably even recognize the pattern of taps that indicate he just typed in his credit card information. Who knows how much money Tim just dropped.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "There is no dwelling a Tudor door curtain cannot impro-- Tim did you just buy an actual tudor door and not a curtain?" she questions, and she leans back, crossing her legs into a lotus position on the couch, leaning against the arm as she sections out the orange.

    "Well. I mean, I can sense magic. Like unless Constantine or Zee or Sims are kind of not holding down their power, I can sense them. It's a bit like picking up on someone's aftershave or perfume. They feel different." she considers, and she holds out her right hand, closes it into a loose fist, and produces a ball of light.

    "I apparently feel like the lovechild of Mr. Rogers and Mary Poppins, covered in sparkly glitter and should require a sunglasses warning." she purses her lips. "But I think everyone interprets it differently. So the Bat Disappear thing is, reasonably, misdirection."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim waves off Phoebe's concerns. Literally, he waves his phone in the air. "No. And completely unrelated, did you know English Heritage sells 20 varieties of curds, preserves, and marmalades?"

    He stretches his legs out to use the coffee table as a footrest, his attention now captivated by whatever is displayed on his phone screen. Having time to actually sit around and mess around on his phone feels almost overly indulgent, after so long without. Though Tim does make a few obligatory noises of agreement as Phoebe gives her demonstration. "It's not as fun when you explain it. Plus it's funny when people think he's some kind of wizard."

    "Oh my god, Mrs. Crocombe has a cookbook."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "You didn't know that there was an Audley cookbook based on the actual Mrs. Crocombe?" Phoebe asks, looking at Tim, and she gives a smile, dismissing the light. "I never thought he was some kind of wizard. I thought he was an alien, like Superman." Phoebe admits, and she tilts her head back a moment, and then she stretches her fingers out, followed by stretching her legs out, and she pokes at his side with her toe with a slight smile on her lips.

    "So how many varieties of curds, preserves and marmalades are going to show up to the door?" she asks, reaching for her tablet.

    It was luxurious, to be sure, and she was able to put off the important facts for the present.

    For now?

    She's poking Tim with her toe, in time to a 50's Jazz version of Toto's classic, Africa.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Given that there are 20 varieties of curds, preserves, and marmalades... I imagine it'll be a number no more than 20." And then Tim takes an obnoxiously loud crunch of a bite into his stolen apple.

    Thus begins the protracted battle between the parties at either end of this ridiculously expensive couch to out-annoy one another.