7596/A Dark Night

A Dark Night
Date of Scene:	29 August 2021
Location:	Roof - Renovated Theatre - The Roost
Synopsis:	A migraine and a missing teammate leads to Lonnie and Tim having a long talk on the rooftop of the Roost.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Lonnie Machin

---

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's been a while since Tim has answered any texts, which is generally unusual for him. He is attached to his phone like any Gen Z-er, though with a customized algorithm set up to determine importance depending on the sender and certain keywords used. Which means he can be woken out of dead sleep if the algorithm determines it's important enough. Hence why he almost always replies, with no real gap to suggest a sleep cycle.

    Also, he's an insomniac. He doesn't sleep much anyway.

    But tonight, he's not sleeping. He's very much awake, bundled up in a blanket and sat on the edge of the Roost's rooftop, overlooking the Gotham skyline. The moon is large and bright overhead, but he's positioned himself so he's in the shadow of part of the building that extends further upwards. And his phone is right there, sat next to him, but he's not looking at it now. Instead he's just staring out at the city, expression unreadable.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie, though he doesn't admit it, gets the occasional migraine - a side-effect of the experiments he did that gave him that ridiculous intellect. So tonight - migraine. He's coming down off it, so after lying in a dark room he texts Tim.
    I know you're awake. I'm going to pour sugar in the Penguin's gas tank.
    He studies his phone and then finally texts:
    I also know you haven't been resting, because you never rest. How are you feeling.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's smart watch vibrates against his wrist. He turns his hand over, and briefly it illuminates his face as he glances at it, before he swipes away the notification and looks back up. With a sigh, he wraps the blanket tighter around himself. Eventually though, maybe several minutes later, he sneaks his hand out to grab his phone.

penguin's still in arkham. put him there last week.
not great. one of my team's dropped off the radar. involved in something i know i can't help her with. i'm supposed to work on trusting my team and their skillset but i hate not being able to do anything.
guess i'm just worried. how are you?

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    There's a long set of dots.
    Migraine
    They happen sometimes, a side-effect of self-experimentation
    You want to control the board and it frustrates you when you can't
    Worrying is natural, I worry all the time
    It simply means you have empathy right
    I make up for it by always having my irons in the fire
    Formenting protests here
    Tearing down a corporatist pig there
    Stay busy

Tim Drake has posed:
    More delay. Tim doesn't leave the rooftop, but he does minimize his text app while he does a scan of the local news sites--local to NYC--and sends off a few emails to some contacts he knows. Nothing has changed since the last time he checked, and if it did, he would've been sent a notification when it got picked up by one of the programs in his computer system that analyzes RSS feeds.

she could be dead. i'm hoping she's just... i don't know, in some sort of alternate dimension.
i have an especially hard time processing things that deal with the metaphysical.
is that what you're doing now? which corporatist pig are you working on right now?
made a dumb joke about bezos today and then immediately felt guilty about it.
that's your fault btw.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    That is a multiple choice question
    You are a logical scientific thinker
    But in my studies of the Occult I have learned it has its own consistent rules
    It makes more sense if you think of magic as hacking the underlying programming code of the universe
    Where are you
    I need to stretch my legs

Tim Drake has posed:
    Maybe Tim should think about this a little bit longer. Actually, he definitely should reconsider.

    Instead, a few moments later, Lonnie is sent a picture. In the foreground is a blurry, multicolored shape, and then what is probably Tim's knees peeking up out of it, and then a glimpse of some of the rooftops of the nearby buildings before the skyline of Gotham stretches out beyond. He doesn't send an accompanying text.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie considers that, and then he gets up and gets dressed. He puts on a black hoodie (with an Anarchy symbol on the back) and jeans and his heavy boots and a bandana over his mouth. "Be good, Yap. Mind the store." He leaves his dog snoring on the couch.
    It takes a little time for him to get there, but Tim can hear Lonnie's motorcycle in the distance before he pulls it into an alley and then makes the climb up to the rooftops. When he reaches where Tim is, he walks over, and drops next to him in a sit, and doesn't say anything.

Tim Drake has posed:
    The blurry, multicolored shape turns out to be a fuzzy blanket with dinosaurs printed on it. Which, don't judge. Tim has most of himself tucked back underneath it except for his bare feet, since the wind has picked up a little bit. It's a pretty high roof, after all, given that the building below used to house a six-screen theater.
    He doesn't say anything back. For a little while he doesn't really acknowledge Lonnie's presence at all, at least until he wriggles, expression pinching in pain, and unwinds the blanket enough that he can offer half of it over. "Even if it was something I could understand, I can't put that information to use. So it doesn't matter," he says, quietly.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie looks down at the blanket, and then he shakes his head. "I'm fine." He pulls the bandana down, and then sits, looking out over the city. "It matters." He says. "People look to you as a leader, and you take the responsibility seriously."
    He looks out, and says, "I don't know that feeling really. I try to inspire, but I'm not much of a leader. But it's only natural to worry about people you care about."
    He looks up and says, "You know, when I was a kid? I wanted to be Robin. I thought I would've been good at it. Mind you, we hit the street at about the same time."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim burritos himself back up quietly, movements slow and careful. Once he's still, the grimace on his expression fades, and he blows out a hard breath through his nose. "It's not something I ever expected. Nobody who knew me when I was a kid would've put me in charge of a kickball team, certainly not a..." He shrugs. "You know."

    "What I mean, is that it's something you have to learn. Inspiring people, that's one thing, but it's just the spark. It's not sustainable in the long-term." He chews on the inside of his cheek.

    For a few moments he's quiet again, doing a cycle of news-email-texts on his phone. And then he drops it back onto the roof next to him. "You would've been a great Robin. You've said it before, it was just a question of circumstance that put me in that costume instead of someone like you," he says. Then he adds, voice dropped low, "I didn't even want to be Robin when I sought him out. I just wanted to help."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I don't know if I would have." Lonnie says, his eyes half-lidded. "I'm independent-minded, stubborn... sometimes a bit of an egomaniac. I own it. I don't take orders well if I think I know better. I would've constantly been grinding against the Batman, constantly provoking and challenging him at every turn instead of being the voice of reason he needed."
    He rubs his hands together, and he adds, "What do you think being Robin *is*, Tim? But that's the thing. You're a hero, and I'm a terrorist." The corner of his mouth goes up. "I mean, I like to think the capitalist elite live in terror of me."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "You could say those exact same things about me," Tim points out. He wraps the blanket more tightly around himself, head burrowing down so that the lower half of his face is covered too. Which means the next thing he says comes out muffled. "The only real difference is, you channel those into your destructive tendencies. I just bury it all."

    His head tilts where it's resting, possibly against his knees judging by his posture, and looks at Lonnie sideways. "I'm still asking myself that and I'm not even Robin anymore." As he faces forward again, his mouth twists into something uncomfortable, even if it probably has little to do with whatever physical pain he's feeling. "I'm sure plenty do. I'm not a good person to ask, though. I'm sitting here in my pajamas next to you, after all."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
"Of course you are." Lonnie raises his eyebrows. "You stuck a 'Red' in front of it and changed your outfit but your plan in the Batman's overall schema hasn't changed. That kid's a better fighter than you, sure, he was engineered from the ground up to be a better fighter, but your analytical skills? He doesn't have the juice." Lonnie raises his eyebrows. "I'd take that kid apart and you know it. Because I wouldn't give him what he wants and fight him. I'd string him along and I'd *exhaust* him and then I'd step on him like a bug. And he'd fall for it."
    Perhaps Lonnie is being a bit vain, there.
    "Everyone has confidence in you except you. Even I use you as my yardstick for quality of enemy, Tim."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Having that pointed out makes Tim groan and pull his hands free of his blanket, so that he can bury his face in them. "I know, I know!" He stays like that for a moment, and then his hands slide up into his hair, sweeping it back. "Obviously I wasn't ready to let go, I get that now." The next exhale he blows out is frustrated and heavy, though the way Tim curls in on himself and refuses to look up suggests it's not really aimed at Lonnie.

    Not telling him anything Tim hasn't already come to realize for himself, here.

    "You're not giving him enough credit. When he first started out, and if you knew he was coming? Maybe. I could see it. But things are different, now. He has a good teacher."

    He shakes his head. Finding himself sitting here defending Damian is a little inexplicable even to Tim, but maybe it's just pragmatic to point it out.

    "Are we still sticking to the whole antagonist storyline?" he asks. "You keep saying that there's a countdown on our friendship, ticking away until you do something that's going to put us at odds. But you said something once about how trusting each other is a choice." Tim tips his head. "So maybe you should trust me to be willing to see past it, when it happens. I wouldn't work with you if I thought you were actually evil or anything. You know that."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I only ever wanted to help people." Lonnie says, with a shrug. "I appreciate that you understand that. But I'm being realistic."
    He reaches over to give Tim a light push - and then he puts an arm across his shoulders. "...Since I've actually gotten to know you as a human being, you seem so... lost."
    "Here's the thing. When you ask someone 'what do you want' or 'how do you feel' and they say 'I don't know' that's usually not true. You know and you're afraid of the answers." He pauses. "...Take that with a grain of salt, as I am many things but a psychiatrist... no. Then again, Harley Quinn IS one, so."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim makes an overexaggerated show of swaying when Lonnie pushes him, and he winces a little after, more because of his own actions. Under the blanket, he rubs at his side lightly, and then his shoulders slump a little when he feels the weight of Lonnie's arm against them. "Yeah, well. Terrorist or not, you came to hang out with me while I was feeling bad, so." He elbows Lonnie in the side, and between the lack of force behind it and the cushion of the blanket between them, it's basically just a nudge. Maybe that's all he meant it to be.

    "You want a real answer? I say I don't know what I want because I've defined myself by other peoples' expectations for so long that I lost who I was along the way. Or maybe I never knew in the first place. I was five years old when my obsession with Batman began, and I can't remember anything before that." He shakes his head, several times, like he's not quite aware he's doing it. But his expression is tight, controlled. "Did I ever want to be something? Most kids go through phases. Dinosaurs. Egyptology. They want to be a firefighter or a police officer or an astronaut. What the hell did I want?"

    He inhales, and then he holds it in long enough that when he finally allows himself to breathe out, it comes out in a rush. And his nose wrinkles. "I don't know. And anyone I could ask about it is dead, so." His head drops forward again, onto his knees. "...yeah, she is. Really says something for the state of mental healthcare in Gotham, doesn't it?"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie is quiet for a long time, a very long time. "You wanted to help Batman. And you have. And now you're having a dark night - pun intended - of the soul, because it's cost you a lot. Your parents are dead, and you blame yourself - could you have been a better son, spent more time with them."
    "I keep a weather eye on my mother, you know. I'm gone. I vanished from her life. I miss her, but the things I do - it'd destroy her. And right now she's clean, she's sober, and she's working, she's seeing a guy who treats her well, and I don't want to *ruin* it." He glances over at Tim.
    "Do you want absolution, Tim? I absolve you. I give you the freedom to try to be *happy* while still following what you *know* is your calling, because all this mooning over whether or not you'd quit is... bullshit. Because above and beyond, you *enjoy* this... call it masochism or whatever you want." He gives a rueful grin. "You like it. Or you're addicted to it. Probably both. If you were just a businessman, a family man, you'd be bored out of your mind."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Let it be known that Tim Drake is not so full of himself that he can't find some humor in a good Batman pun. Enough to snort faintly at it, at least. He's silent for the rest of what Lonnie says, staring dead ahead, blinking once at the mention of his parents but otherwise not reacting. Underneath Lonnie's arm, his shoulders tense, but then he lets out a shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes shut.

    When they blink back open, he sniffs, and his hands come out from beneath the blanket to rub at his face, against his eyes. "That's--I, uh, didn't realize that--." The words die in his throat, and he grits his teeth. Another moment passes before Tim gives it another try. "Thank you. I have no idea where to even possibly start, but. Thanks."

    "You're right. I'm going to do this until it kills me, because I don't have any other choice. And even worse than that, because I want to keep doing it." He sniffs again, but one corner of his mouth twitches, like he's just given a passing consideration about smiling. Not quite, but it's more than nothing. "That's a... noble thing you're doing. For your mom. The things we do will always end up hurting the people we love, no matter how much we try to stop it. For what it's worth, I'm impressed. And I'm sorry."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "It's more selfish than anything else. I don't want the emotional drag of upsetting her and sending her into another spiral. If she falls off the wagon? I'll be involved again, instantly." He turns his head to regard Tim. "It's all right to miss your parents, you know. It's all right to grieve for them. But if you're worried that you're disappointing them?"
    "Past a certain point I think the approval or disapproval of our parents ceases to matter. Being true to ourselves matters more. Look at me. I'm an Anarchist who lives in a Subway and I'm planning a big move to the decrepit movie studio. I deleted all record of myself as a human being and occasionally, I fight Batman and Robin. This is who I am... but it isn't the path any parent would pick for their child."
    "Not any parent who deserves to have children, anyway." He rolls his eyes. "Tim, give yourself the freedom to laugh, to fall in love, to live a romantic life - because there's a bunch of fucked-up clowns and swamp monsters and creatures that purport to be gods - who delight in the idea of you tormenting yourself. I'm not saying turn into a reckless party animal... I have it on pretty good authority you're an introverted, cerebral guy."
    "But given the *extraordinary* way in which we exist maybe you should consider occasionally taking one of those femme fatales up on their offer. I mean I'm pretty sure the Batman did! ...Half-pint has the same chin and the same scowl. I'm a perceptive guy."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim makes a noise in his throat that sounds a little bit disbelieving when Lonnie calls himself selfish. "Or maybe that's just how you frame it in your mind so that you can keep yourself separate from uncomfortable emotions." He holds out his hands. "But who knows. I'm many things, but not a psychiatrist."

    Okay, now he's smiling. At his own joke, no less.

    "It's not even the disappointment that bothers me. It's not knowing if I would, or not, the lingering doubt about it... that's what really gets to me. And the realization that I didn't really know either of them well enough to make an assumption, but... even then, I wouldn't have been sure."

    He looks down at where he's folded his hands together. "I can make a profile. Rich, old money, living in Gotham. More likely to skew conservative both fiscally and socially, though I know my mother was slightly more progressive than my father. She married into money, and she died without ever finding out about what I did at night instead of my homework. But my dad knew, and saying he didn't approve is putting it pretty lightly. You remember that, like... month where I just disappeared around when we were 17?"

    The implication is left for Lonnie to figure out himself. Tim's moved on, if the way his head turns sharply to stare is anything to go by. "Yeah, sure, what about 'introverted' or 'cerebral' says 'absolutely down for a nice evening, dinner, maybe a movie, with a homicidal assassin '?" he asks, and then he shudders, which--ow.

    Lonnie doesn't even get a response about the Damian thing. Nope. Not even going there.

    "I've dated the people I've been expected to date but it's never felt right." Tim frowns. "Well, once, there was--well. She's a really good friend now."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie mutters, "The ongoing quest for human connection. I've *never* had a relationship and I expect I never will. I wanted love and affection, so I got a dog. Terrorists can't just whip up a dating profile on OK Cupid. Actually I tried to take down OK Cupid once, online dating is awful-" He holds up a hand and stops himself. "I remember that month, it was the August without a Robin. Were you grounded?"
    He shrugs. "It was a suggestion - an example. You don't necessarily need *physical* love in your life. One day you might meet your own Catwoman. Or Catman... what a weird guy he is. Performance crime. Bizzare. Anyway. What you need is human connection. What about your idiot friends, Superboy and Impulse? They seem fun. Well, maybe not Superboy, he seems like a chump."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Why not?" Tim asks. "You're sitting here recommending it to me but you--is it that you aren't interested in it or you don't think anyone would be interested in you?" The dating profile thing, all it does is make him shake his head. "Yeah, it's awful, but it's also entirely besides the point. It's not like I could make a dating profile either. Not one that wasn't based in lies, and that's, you know, a *great* way to start off a relationship."

    He smiles. It's not even a good memory, but something about remembering how angry his father had been, how miserable he'd been himself, stuck inside... it's almost fond. "Yeah. Only took me a few weeks to start sneaking out again."

    His head tilts to the side so he can look at Lonnie again, mouthing 'Catwoman?' and then, even more perplexed, 'Catman?' He looks forward again, grimacing as his eyebrows draw together. "They're not idiots. They're good people." This time around, yeah, Tim definitely intends the dig of his elbow into Lonnie's side. "Shut up. Yes, I have friends, and they're nice. Not all of my relationships are built on deep philosophical discussions, that's mostly just a me-and-you thing."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie scoffs. "What kind of person would want to date an Anarchist with no legal identity who's constantly scheming to save the world by undermining the decrepit status quo? I'm self-aware enough to recognize that the things I'm driven toward are interpersonal relationship *poison*-" He holds up one finger. "Also this isn't about me, so don't change the subject."
    "Aha! He admits that people like him. Perhaps lean into your charms then, and just enjoy being you? And when people tell you why they like you, believe them." He ruffles Tim's hair, briefly. "I'm not telling you not to be introspective or sad, of course. But have faith - not in gods or anything so nebulous - but in the people in your life. Much as I have faith that the people will eventually revolt against the corrupt system slowly sucking them dry." He sighs. "...Any day now they'll wake up and see. Any day." He's taking a dig at himself there, but hope does spring eternal.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "So it *is* that you don't think anyone would be interested." Of course Tim ignores the demand to not change the subject. He's latched onto something, a bloodhound that's caught a scent, and it wouldn't be Tim if he let it go. His eyes narrow in consideration. "That's garbage and you know it. If you prefer to keep people at arm's length, admit it, but you can't deny that you and I have a perfectly functional," and Tim stops there to acknowledge that he might be slightly off the mark there with a quick, teeth-gritted grimace, before he continues with, "What we're doing here is having an interpersonal relationship."

    He huffs out an annoyed breath at the ruffling, and automatically lifts a hand up to sweep it through his hair. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You're not perfect, not that anyone is, but you're incredibly intelligent, and when you believe in something you throw yourself into it one hundred percent. You're also surprisingly thoughtful and supportive, you know, like right now?" Tim's hand lifts to gesture between them.

    Then his hand drops, and he tucks his arms back under his blanket, because he's laughing and to do so without crumpling Tim needs to be able to press his hand against his side. "And you're optimistic, too. Maybe take your own advice a little."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie squints. "You're also exceptionally good at deflecting." Then he spreads his hands out in front of him, and says, "Well, maybe all that's true. But I'm still wedded to my cause, much as you are to yours. Just-" He shrugs, "...I don't know. Remember that people like you, sheesh-" He shakes his head.
    "I appreciate the compliment. As for being helpful and supportive - I'm an Anarchistic terrorist, not a *monster*. You're having a hard time, I want to help you through it. That's natural. It's human."
    "And maybe this interpersonal relationship might be lopsided, but it's helped me, too. Even if I do still want to fill Hamilton Hill's house with shaving cream."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's laughter has turned wheezy and breathless, and he presses himself tight against the bracket of his thighs, folding himself together like he's trying to keep all his insides, you know, inside. It's not quite to that level of danger, but it still hurts like crazy.

    "Look at that, you give *great* compliments too," he adds on, nose crinkled as he grins against his knees.

    Still laughing. "Thanks," he says, and then he reaches out to grab Lonnie's knee just before he shakes his head, sharply. Though it's hard to take his request of "Please don't fill Mayor Hill's house with shaving cream," all that seriously given Tim has to squeeze his eyes shut and every other word comes out as a chuckle.

    He withdraws back into the blanket as he tries to calm his breathing. "I hope I didn't pop a stitch there." He doesn't sound too concerned. "...honestly, I can't believe you suggested I find my own Catwoman--a noted thief--or a Catman, who is... you know, his own thing, but no, you can't possibly be worth dating. I thought you were egotistical, but you're putting yourself below *Catman*? Come on, Lonnie. Give my arch-nemesis a little more credit, otherwise that just reflects badly on me."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie crinkles his nose up. "Fine, Drake. Find me someone who'll find it appealing when I go on a tear and decide to crash the national economy or... I don't know, collapse the corporate ecology of Gotham City and I'll date them." He sits there, and says, "Well, at least you got a laugh of it. I guess that makes my embarassment worth SOMETHING, right?" He rolls that around in his mouth as if he can taste it, and he isn't sure he likes it.
    "I'm going to do it, I'm going to fill Mayor Hill's house full of shaving cream. He'll open the door to his mansion and flrrrrrrrrrrrt-"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Hey, hey, wait," Tim says, and he shifts the way he's sitting, twisting around so he's facing Lonnie. The movement obviously pulls at his injury enough for it to show in the tightness around his eyes, but he's been ignoring the pain this whole time. Not gonna stop now.

    And the whole point of him moving is so that he can grab Lonnie by the arm. "Look, number one, neither of those things would happen because I'd stop you. And number two, you probably wouldn't anyway. You crash the national economy and the rich people withdraw to their private islands and it's everyone else who suffers." After a moment of consideration, he tilts his head to the side. "...guess I could see the second one, though. My point stands, anyway."

    He looks up at Lonnie, eye to eye. "I'm sorry if you think I'm laughing at you. I guess I am, a little bit, but not at, uh, what you think."

    "I just think you're being an idiot, the way you're talking about yourself. Guess I'm not as good at talking you up as you are to me." Tim lets go, then, and clears his throat as he moves back. "Anyway, I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I would really, really like it if you filled Mayor Hill's house with shaving cream. Just don't announce that you're going to do it so I can have some plausible deniability, okay?"

    His hands come up to cover his face. "I can't believe I just admitted that," he repeats, mumbling.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    There's a really, REALLY long pause from Lonnie as he's facing Tim - and then he leans in and jabs him in the chest - where he's not injured - with a finger. "Great. Now I have absolutely NOTHING holding me back from filling Mayor Hill's house full of shaving cream, and that stupid stunt's going to take me WEEKS of prep work."
    He pokes Tim again. "Thanks. A. Lot. Drake. You've set my plans back for a month because it's too hilarious not to do it! He'll be a laughingstock, it'll tank his chances for re-election and I can start energizing credible grassroots candidates-"
    He snorts. "Okay fine, it's a good idea, of course it is - I thought of it." He pokes Tim again and leans in. "You have a sick sense of humor, *Alvin*."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Oh no, Tim feels the laughter about to start up again. He jams a fist against his mouth and tries to fight it off, while at the same time swatting at Lonnie's hand, trying to fight *him* off. "Now you're going to waste so much time figuring out the exact volumetric space of Mayor Hill's house, and then think how long it'll take you to get the transportation logistics down for that amount of shaving cream. My cunning plan has worked!"

    He leans back, laughter mostly under control, if only to avoid any more sharp pains to his chest. "Thanks. For coming over," he says, and he looks at Lonnie again. He's about to smile but immediately he can tell it'll lead right back into hysterics, so he tilts his face away, breathes in and out a few times to calm himself.

    "I prefer 'clever', Theodore." He pauses. "How were you going to sell that if someone noticed, by the way? I don't think we'd exactly pass as brothers."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Different mothers." Lonnie says, "Dad got around."
    He shrugs his shoulders, and says, "Yours is a librarian, mine's a Las Vegas showgirl." He perks an eyebrow, and then he muses, "That other Robin can be Simon. His mother's a-" He thinks. "No, that's mean."
    Then his hand flips up, and he flips Tim's nose with his index finger. "I'm keeping you off-balance with my witty retorts. It's working, right?"
    He gives another grin. "You should take a week off. Get some actual sleep. Dr. Thompkins did prescribe you some of that stuff Melatonin wishes it was."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim pauses to consider this. "I'd see right through it, obviously, but it probably would've worked long enough for an escape." He doesn't ask after what Lonnie cuts himself off from saying, though it does make his brow furrow. And he doesn't even move back when Lonnie flips his nose, though he does reach up to rub at it. "I was more off-balance when you first got here. I think I was about eighty percent done talking myself into a panic attack."

    He braces himself back against the wall behind him with one hand, and struggles up to his feet with a gritted noise that manages to escape the clench of his teeth. Once he's up, he sighs, and pulls the blanket around his shoulders. "You heading back to Yap, get to work on that shaving cream plan?" he asks as he steps towards the door to the stairway. "Oh, no, sleep was what I was supposed to be doing instead of hanging out on the roof. I recovered another one of those devices like the one we found on the cruise ship, but it's still active and transmitting. I'm going to go poke at it until I figure it out." He tips his head slightly as he looks back at Lonnie, almost consideringly.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie gets to his feet. "You know the device'll still be there in the morning. Probably. It will probably still be there in the morning. And you'll *think* better if you sleep. Remember, being awake for 24 hours at a stretch is the inhibitive equivalent of having a blood alcohol content of point-ten percenet. Sleep is essential."
    Lonnie crosses his arms across his chest. "I was going to get back, he'll be fine though, he has an automatic feeder and he knows his job is to mind the store while I'm out. What?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Well, so long as my mental clock is accurate, I'm just shy of nineteen and a half hours since I woke up," Tim says, and he flashes a half-smile at that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looks away for a moment, and then looks back. "You want to come poke at it with me?"

    Immediately once he's asked, Tim looks... vaguely self-conscious. "Look, you... tolerate me inserting myself into your space, even though you probably don't want to be bothered most of the time. I have a ton of leftover sushi from the party and I'm dogsitting Scout, you could come meet him, and--you said our interpersonal relationship is lopsided." He takes a breath. "Which is on me. So it's also on me to fix it. If you want."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
Lonnie tilts his head - he was about to pull his bandana up. "Let me just - put the TV show Yap likes on. It's the usual consumerist garbage, but he enjoys it." He thumbs a button on his phone, and then he gets to his feet, and turns to trail after Tim. "...I like Monkey Rolls." He says. "If there are any."
    He doesn't tease or pontificate about the offer. If he has any thoughts on the subject, he keeps them to himself.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I'm not sure what's left beyond none of the cucumber rolls since I ate them all." Tim shoulders the door open after he unlocks it wirelessly via his phone, and lets Lonnie inside first. There's the stairs access to the left, and then an elevator straight ahead, which is where Tim heads on account of the stab wound.

    It dings, and the doors slide open. "I saved a bag of dog treats, you can take some home to Yap."