10215/The Nicest Word There Is

The Nicest Word There Is
Date of Scene:	20 February 2022
Location:	Tim's home, Gotham
Synopsis:	After returning from NYC one final time, Tim is put on medical leave from his usual cape activities while he has the Archive stuck in his head. Somehow he ends up planning a vacation. Even more surprising: Lonnie agrees to go with him (though they have to fly Coach).
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Lonnie Machin

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Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim doesn't think he's ever quite appreciated the creature comforts of home until his extended trip to New York City, which had kept him away for weeks. When they'd finally returned, he and Phoebe and Bruce, Tim had spent a solid week 'off-duty'.

    Of course, by Tim's interpretation that means he's stuck doing work that can be done off of his feet. So he was still busy, just busy on his computer, sat up in bed or curled up on one end of Lonnie's couch.

    Then for a little while everything had been normal. Patrols, investigations, a few missions with the Outsiders. Until a summons comes in one day to return to NYC, and Tim suits up one more time in the geared borrowed from the cave.

    When they return, he just about has to pour Phoebe into the nearest bed, which in this case is his own, and then Tim himself doesn't manage to stay awake much longer past that. Idu, Phoebe's Egyptian Sighthound, is underneath the blankets with them, and Phoebe herself is still passed out.

    Tim isn't sure why he's awake. He blinks tiredly up at the ceiling where sunlight cuts across it like a knifewound from where his blackout curtains have been disturbed.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Perhaps a moment later it might become obvious that there's a weight - oooh, about 175 pounds of it - pinning Tim to the bed.
    That's because Lonnie is sitting on him, reading a copy of Nichomachean Ethics. He did all this somehow without disturbing Phoebe or her dog. He even has earbuds in, so if Tim makes a noise of complaint, he has an excuse to pretend not to notice. He shifts a little bit so his book has maximum sunlight coverage, and he turns a page.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Well, that explains why Tim is having trouble breathing. It's nice that it's not because of discovering some surprise broken ribs upon waking up, which happens frankly way too often.

    "You're crushing me to death," Tim deadpans, voice muted to avoid waking Phoebe. And rather than let Lonnie ignore him, Tim struggles up onto one elbow so that he can snap his hand out to try and snatch one of Lonnie's earbuds right out of his ear.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie turns another page, and then simply says, "Complain too loudly and you'll wake her up." He looks back down at his book, after pulling his earbuds out of his ears, and then says, "I figured after twelve hours, you would've wanted me to wake you up anyway. It's been a productive half-day, but I'm not going to tell you about any of it. Also, it's three PM." He raises his eyebrows. "That's late, even for your family."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "You're the worst," Tim complains, though he doesn't say it in a way that sounds all that upset. He hadn't even put his smart watch on after he'd peeled himself out of his costume and changed into pajamas, so Tim instead shoves his hand under his pillow and pulls out his phone to frown at it blearily.

    When it turns out Lonnie isn't lying about the time, he mutters "Damn," and then prods at the heavy anarchist weight on top of him to move. "Let me up--."

    A sharp gurgle from his stomach stops him from continuing with whatever he was going to say, and instead Tim's nose wrinkles. "I'm starving," he says instead.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    If anything he's a little *under* weight for his height thanks. He unfolds himself, and gets up off of Tim. "Well come on. I'll make you -" He pauses, as if thinking about that one, "Supper. That's when you eat in the mid-afternoon, right? Rich people classify everything." He gestures. "Well, come on then." He casually meanders out into the kitchen. He's got on his usual ripped jeans, painted sneakers, and a T-Shirt that says 'Gout makes rich men easier to catch'.

Tim Drake has posed:
    The way that Tim takes in a great deep breath as soon as Lonnie's not sitting on him anymore is all drama. He's certainly unaffected by any actual lack of oxygen as he slips out from beneath the sheets to follow after, in his sweatpants and tank top.

    Though he does pause before leaving to tuck the blankets around Phoebe again, and briefly hold his hand out next to where a dog snout pokes out from beneath. He gets a few sleepy licks from Idu for his trouble, and then with a nod he leaves them to sleep as he joins Lonnie in the kitchen.

    "I'm not a hobbit. Food is food." Tim hops up onto the counter--after a brief detour to the sink to wash dog slobber off his palm--and then spends a few moments combing his fingers through his hair in an ultimately pointless attempt at taming some of its chaos.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "It looks a little like it did when you were thirteen. When did 'artfully messy' go out of fashion anyway? Probably around the time you stopped skateboarding." Lonnie opens Tim's freezer and then he says, "Do you do eggs, or no?" He gets out some frozen hash browns, which go into Tim's gleaming metal air fryer, and some cherry tomatoes, which go into a skillet.
    "So I take it you had a long day. I don't ask about your business, but - hm - this time I think I'm asking about your business."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's legs dangle over the edge of the counter as he watches, eyes tracking Lonnie's movement back and forth in the kitchen. "Eggs, yes," he confirms, then gives up on trying to tame his hair, elbows resting on his knees.

    "Hmm, maybe. I still have that skateboard around somewhere, you know." His eyes narrow slightly when Lonnie asks after his business, and Tim looks at him for a long moment, searchingly, before he sighs and lets his head tip forward. "Yeah. Jonathan Sims died last night."

    Before Lonnie gets a chance to say anything in reply, Tim waves a hand. "It was expected. Magical prophecy or something." He rolls his eyes. "There's plans in place to bring him back, but in the meantime..."

    As he trails off there, Tim's hands flex briefly into fists against his knees. Then he doesn't continue, expression unfocused and distant, eyes on the floor.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I sometimes think about the insane world we live in, and how elite it is, that when someone like that dies there's just a protocol in place to bring them back." Lonnie muses, as he gets out the eggs and then cracks several into a bowl. "You're going stoic again." Lonnie muses. "Do I have to quote you the statistics about men and the problems caused by stoic behavior?"
He smirks, out of the corner of his mouth. "I get it. You failed. And now?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's head snaps up sharply, and he blinks at Lonnie as if seeing him for the first time. "I-- no, we--."

    His breath blows out of him in one huge burst and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Sorry. No, we, uh--how do I explain this--." For a moment or two Tim is silent, his attention turned inwards.

    And apparently he really was just taking the time to figure out a proper explanation, because when he sits up and shakes his head.

    "Jonathan Sims was the host of a mystical source of historical information called the Archive. If we hadn't intervened, his death would have triggered its passing to his daughter, who already has a target on her back. So, instead," and then he just taps his temple, to imply where it's currently being stored.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Aha, so you have countless ages of mystic secrets in your head. And you feel a little overwhelmed by it. Or worse, it's giving you ideas on how to undo every percieved mistake you've ever made." Lonnie begins to whisk up the eggs, and he whistles to himself for a moment. "Torn between being desperate to get rid of it and not being sure you want to give it back?" He asks, as he pours the eggs out into a frying pan, and he waits for them to curdle, before he starts to stir them around with a pair of chopsticks.
    "I mean, I get it, I suppose. Me and my fused bicameral mind." He hums to himself - it's 'The Red Flag'.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Overwhelmed," Tim confirms with a nod of his head. "I'm--trying to keep it sectioned off in my mind, but sometimes just thinking too hard about something brings up memories."

    He stares at Lonnie's back for a long while, silent aside for the steady in-out of his breathing. Until his gaze drops. "I thought I'd be more curious about it than I am, but it..." He shakes his head, even though Lonnie won't be able to see it. "I don't want the answers given to me. It feels like... cheating. I don't know. That doesn't make any sense. Does it? You might have fused your cerebral hemispheres but it's still just your brain up there."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Well you are insufferably insistent on your own cleverness." Lonnie plates up the food. Scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and after the air fryer beeps, hash browns. He offers Tim a bottle of ketchup, and then he hops up to sit on the counter. "I think maybe it's more that it isn't *yours* so you feel like you have no right to it. Now me, I'd be exploiting the hell out of it. But that's why you're you, and I'm me." Before Tim starts eating, he leans down to almost kiss Tim on the mouth, but he thinks better of it. "You haven't brushed your teeth yet." So he kisses him on the cheek instead.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's eyebrows begin to climb towards his hairline. "Pot, kettle," is all he says to that, nose wrinkled in amusement. And then he holds his hands out for the plate that Lonnie bestows upon him.

    He's even polite enough that he makes a little pool of ketchup on the plate rather than just slather it all over everything Lonnie's just cooked for him. The almost-kiss and redirect at the last minute gets a closed-mouth bout of laughter, because Tim's already shoveled a bite of eggs in.

    "Thank you," he says, after he's finished chewing. And he sets his fork down so that he can reach out and squeeze Lonnie's hand.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie gives Tim's hand a warm squeeze, and then he leans his hands back on the counter so they can hold up his weight. "So what can we do to take your mind off this until you can put it back where it's supposed to go. Ten mile run? Should I try to overthrow the government again? I had plans to put that in motion next week." That's possibly a joke... maybe? Hopefully? Either way he's kicking his legs and he seems at ease with this moment of - heh - domesticity.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim doesn't even look back when Lonnie mentions overthrowing the government. Either he's brushing it off as a joke or he's really just used to it, after all this time. "Pretty sure I'm supposed to be taking it easy right now," he says. Again, he taps his temple.

    "Precious cargo, and all."

    He pulls his phone out from his pocket and balances it on his thigh as he holds his plate in one hand. For a few moments he's busy tapping at it, fork still in his fingers. "...It's 35 degrees and sunny in Reykjavik right now."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Is that really what you want?" Lonnie asks, before he murmurs, "Okay, but with one caveat. We fly commercial. No private jet. See how the other half lives." He crosses his arms. "Boy have I mellowed. I need to do something drastic or I'll lose my edge." His eyebrows raise.

Tim Drake has posed:
    The fork pauses halfway to Tim's mouth, and then he lowers it back down to the plate so that he can look over his shoulder. His eyes are a little wider than usual, brows raised, but then he bites back a smile.

    "...First class?" he asks, rather than trying to argue the point, his voice hopeful.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie kicks his legs, and then says, "What do you think?" Flying coach is no fun at all. Maybe this'll convince Tim that Wayne Air should make some changes to its plane layouts, so at least people have some legroom.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim chews over that answer both literally and figuratively for a minute or so. Also, he's... really, really hungry, since he hadn't eaten after making it home last night. So a conversation break for some uninterrupted chowing down feels necessary, at that point.

    "Fine," he agrees. "But I'm taking the window seat." And then he's tapping away at his phone more, no doubt booking their tickets right here and now.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    This is Lonnie hoisting himself on his own petard - he's got longer legs, so he's going to suffer more. On the other hand, Tim's the one with the bougie private planes, so maybe when somebody sticks their feet under his seat or puts a foot on his armrest he'll suffer more. Either way, there'll be suffering, which satisfies Lonnie.

    While Tim books tickets, he puts his arms over his head and stretches. "Well, I guess I'll go take care of some stuff while you do the dishes."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim shovels the last forkful of egg into his mouth and then hops down off the counter, to do the cleaning up. Because Lonnie cooked, which means Tim does the dishes. He knows that much, at least.

    "Don't do anything too dangerous, okay? We don't need you with any active warrants out when we're trying to get you through airport security."

    There's nothing but the sound of running water for a couple of seconds, but then Tim huffs out a breath. "Can't believe I just said that," he mutters.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie snorts, and then laughs. "Airport security. If worse comes to worse I can distract a TSA piglet with a conveniently thrown donut and then sneak by while they're distracted." He leans against the doorway, facing away from Tim.
    "You can get through this. I believe in you."

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's only the skillet and chopsticks Lonnie used, and then his own plate and fork, so Tim's done pretty quickly. He's still drying his hands off as he comes up behind Lonnie.

    "Thank you." Tim lets his forehead bump against Lonnie's back, between his shoulderblades. "I'm fine, really."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "You're not, but you're working on it." Lonnie says, without turning around. "So let's take a shower and you can go for a run. You know, something rhythmic you can focus on instead of the summa of human knowledge currently swirling around in your brain. Like I said, I have tactics I use just for this occasion. You just count your footfalls."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim hums a noise that's probably an assent to Lonnie's offer. "I don't think it's technically the entire breadth of all human experience, just what various past Archivists have come to know during their times in service to the Archives."

    He laces his fingers with Lonnie's. "A run sounds pretty good, though. You think Yap's up for it?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "He's been huffy all day because I put mine off until you woke up." Lonnie says, as his fingers intertwine with Tim's. "Well I was being sarcastic. I assumed there were a lot of memories about trying to get stains out of wizard robes." He gives a little bit of a grin. "Go brush your teeth and put your under armour on. I'll get Yap."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim makes a face, brow furrowing and nose bunching up. "I'm going to avoid thinking about that just in case it does actually bring memories out of the Archive."

    Then he pulls away, matching Lonnie's grin with one of his own. "I'll be right back, just give me 150 seconds! Go stretch!"

    And then Tim's off at a run towards the stairs.

    Somehow he makes it back in the allotted time, teeth brushed and clothes changed. There's also a lanky Egyptian Sighthound with still-slightly-too-long legs dancing around him, ears perked and obviously eager to join them. Idu is very likely to give Yap a run for his money.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Was Lonnie just going to run in his jeans? Maybe. Then again, Lonnie's likely to give Tim a run for *his* money. He's got long legs too. Either way, he's got Yap on a leash, who's already eager and waiting to go, bouncing in circles while they both wait for Tim.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Tell me you're not just going to run in your jeans," Tim says as he crouches down by the front door to get a leash and harness on Idu, which is a... process, to say the least.

    Though he'd get it done faster if he wasn't giving Lonnie a side-eye about his running clothes. Tim's in compression shorts and a new, clean tank top that is otherwise visually identical to the one was wearing before. "Do you want to borrow something of mine?" he asks.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "No," Lonnie says, "I'm good." He shrugs. He seems to be good. He runs in jeans. But he's also got under armour leggings on underneath them, so he's cheating just a little bit. But Master Detective's probably already noticed that.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Probably. But Tim only raises an eyebrow, and then shrugs. Idu's all dressed up and ready to go, and he's still a puppy, so waiting really isn't in his doggy vocabulary. "Your choice."

    He checks his smart watch, and then after touching one of the side buttons, Tim nods. "Race you to the park." And then, because he cheats a little bit too, Tim dashes out the front door before Lonnie gets a chance to reply.