7745/Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right
Date of Scene:	08 September 2021
Location:	Lonnie's new hideout, Panessa Studios
Synopsis:	Tim and Lonnie Figure It Out. A Plot Thing. Mostly.
Cast of Characters:	Lonnie Machin, Tim Drake

---

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    After the showdown with the vanishing spider, Lonnie bid Tim adieu - he's set things up well at Panessa, even though he's doing a lot of the work himself, and he's really only occupying a small part of the abandoned studio lot. He's done a bunch of graffiti-tagging on the building, spraypaint art, a big red Anarchy symbol - it's his motif, SHUT UP TIM-
    But right now he's inside, with his costume discarded on the floor and the sound of running water. His dog is currently rolling around on the floor of his hideout, playing with a squeaky toy of a GCPD cop. Squeak squeak!

Tim Drake has posed:
    And in comes... Anarky! Or at least, someone in a hoodie and jeans, somewhat lacking the usual punk flair Lonnie tends to rock, but the mask's right. Even if Lonnie's not missing one from his collection. Blue eyes, instead of green, though. A few inches too short.

    Tim, because yes of course it's Tim, lets his backpack slip off his shoulder so he can set it down, and then he takes off the mask before he proceeds to lay down on his stomach, right next to Yap.

    "Get 'im," he cheers amongst the chorus of squeak squeak squeak, and then he rolls to his side so he can access the front pocket of his hoodie. From which he pulls a reusable ziploc of, admittedly now slightly crushed, dog treats. Tim fishes out a couple of the biggest pieces and holds them out for Yap.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Proving any dog can only be trusted to support the revolution so far, Yap attacks the treats with typical terrier mutt gusto, his rear end wiggling as fast as his tail as he gobbles them down.
    The water in the other room turns off. "So Yap, what do you think I should do next, I could fill the cake at the Wayne Christmas Gala with firecrackers-
    He walks out wearing a fluffy towel cinched tight around his waist with a knot, and bath sandals, and a towel-turban for all that hair. "Yikes!" He takes a step backward.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's still sprawled out, hoodie down, looking somehow quite comfortable on the ground. He's rolled over onto his side slightly so he can prop himself up on his elbow, one hand busy petting Yap while the other holds his phone up as he scrolls with his thumb.

    "I moved things around in your fridge so I could put Yap's food away," he says without looking up. Something on his phone's screen makes him narrow his eyes, and briefly his tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth as he pulls his hand away from Yap long enough to type something out.

    Don't worry though, Yap, Tim is back to petting you soon enough.

    His backpack sits, nearly empty, next to him on the floor. "You should probably introduce it to him slowly. Just mix a little bit in with his regular kibble. I wrote the date on the container, and emailed you the recipe."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "But I-" Lonnie grimaces. "I had STUFF in the fridge Tim... stuff I didn't LABEL. Stuff I don't want to mistake for other stuff-" He pinches the bridge of his nose and then holds up one hand. "It's fine. It's fine. Come over, put stuff in my fridge, feed my dog. I guess we're friends like that - I'm just... not used to having friends like that." He turns, and says, "I'll just go-"
    "Not be naked. Yeah." He walks off, his sandals clapping against his heels.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Something else drags Tim's attention away, and again he needs both hands for some kind of text reply. But after he's done with that, he slides his phone into his pocket, and then folds his free arm so he can rest his head on it. "Think I should tell him I took a picture of the fridge before I moved things?" he asks Yap while scratching behind the dog's ears.

    And then Tim smiles. "No, you're right. I deserve a little payback, don't I?" He picks up the slobbery dog toy and squeaks it as he holds it out for Yap to attack. "Let's pretend it's Detective Bullock."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Yap jumps up and attacks the dog with fierceness. GNARRGRNARARRRRRRARRAR.
    A moment later and Lonnie comes out, in a pair of shorts and running leggings. He's running a wet brush through his hair, which is halfway down his back when it's wet. He sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth.
    "Everything in Gotham City squared away, huh?" He asks, before he drawls, "No spiders hiding in your hair?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Yap gets a series of "Good boy"s and "You got him!"s from Tim for his ferociousness, and eventually Tim lets go of the toy for Yap to have all to himself.

    He sits up after, and folds his legs together. "One victim deceased, two injured but stable, and several thousand dollars of property damage that I have to figure out how to get handled," Tim says. And then his nose wrinkles, shoulders starting to inch upwards as he tries--and mostly fails--not to cringe.

    It takes a legitimate moment before Tim has settled himself. Enough that he can spit out "Don't be an ass, Lonnie," without making any uncomfortable grimacing noises. His fingers twitch against his knees but he doesn't reach up to run them through his hair. Ugh, though. He really wants to. "Those spiders definitely weren't out to get me specifically," he points out, after a pause.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Well see? Now I know something about you!" Lonnie beams, a grin splitting his face, before he says, "I'm an Empiricist, and this makes no sense. Maybe they're extradimensional incursions, but none of the math I've run suggests that's happening in Gotham City right now." He folds his arms across his chest before he sits on the arm of the old secondhand leather couch he scavenged from somewhere. Sure it's patched with gorilla tape but it's very comfortable.
    "I hate things that don't make sense. They..." He gestures. "Angry. Me." Ladies and gentlemen, a certified super-genius.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Ugh. The mortifying ordeal of being known." Tim scrunches his neck and shoulders one final time in the attempt to eradicate that creepy-crawley feeling to little success before he climbs up onto the couch next to Lonnie. As he finds a particularly comfortable squishy spot in the cushions, he pulls his arms into the sleeves of his hoodie, and then wriggles out of it in a thoroughly ungraceful way.

    He pulls his t-shirt down from where it's ridden up, and then brushes his fingers through his hair which finally satisfies that particular urge. "Uh huh. Angry Tim also." He shoots a droll look Lonnie's way as he bends forward to pull a tablet from his backpack. "Wanna hear about a completely different weird thing happening in Gotham that I actually have some information on?" he asks.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Honestly I thought you were going to read me the riot act for the spider thing. You seemed pretty mad. I just thought it was funny." Lonnie says. He's sitting on the armrest, with his feet up on it and his arms hugging his knees.
    "Well, you're in my hideout, so I guess yes? Nobody's gonna think I've captured you, right? Red Hood's not going to kick in the door and mop the floor with my face?" He's kidding. Mostly. Kind of. ...Not really.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's not actually waiting for an answer to his last question. He pulls the stylus out of the slot against the back of his tablet as it powers on, and studies the screen a moment before he inputs his password. There's probably biometrics and other security measures involved, too, knowing him. "I mean, I didn't *like* it," he says. "But I do understand the concept of friendly teasing. Been subjected to it plenty, it's half the reason why I've managed to lighten up." Which feels like a joke, but he is certainly less serious than he was during his tenure as Robin.

    The tablet screen opens up to a home page with a rotating background of deep space pictures, all of the app icons custom. He taps at one, and then something a little bit like a traditional murder board and a little bit like a neural map is displayed. A pinch of Tim's fingers zooms it in on one section.

    "So, Perreault & Richelieu," he begins. And then he looks up. "What? No. No one's going to come check on me." Tim's brows draw together. "I mean, why would they?" His legs pull up against his chest, tablet balanced on his knees. "We don't have to go over this if you don't want. I just thought--I don't know. I'm frustrated, and I figured you might be too. This is something with actual progress."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie leans in, his red eyebrows going up as he studies the display and then continues to brush his hair. Brush, brush, brush. So much red hair. As it dries, it starts to curl. "Yes, you're a walking comedy club." He teases - then he stops brushing his hair for a moment.
    "Is this that mystery agent that kept me up for three days? You've cracked the chemical code on it? I couldn't do it. My best theory was an airborne agent exacerbated by depressants."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim actually sticks his tongue out at that, which combined with the flattest look he can muster, it's quite the expression. Then he stares down at his tablet.

    "That's it, though!" He holds up his stylus like a pointer. "I don't think it's a chemical agent. As far as I can tell, the only thing the guests at the hotel were exposed to was promethazine. Actually, I think it's--" And then he pauses, tapping the stylus to his chin. "Some sort of... energy field maybe, or a broadcasted signal. There's plenty of evidence for certain frequency vibrations having physiological effects on the human body."

    As he speaks, he drags his fingers along the tablet screen, scrolling past images, data files, videos, all carefully annotated and linked together. "I was investigating one of their real estate holdings, it's an office building on West 17th and Bowers, and found mention of an underground parking garage that was sealed up after the tidal wave hit Gotham in 2011. Turns out, though, P&R started construction work on it as soon as they took possession of the building in late April."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "So a jacked-up version of sitting under a fluoroescent light?" Lonnie seems very interested in that. "I... uh. Broadcasted signal." He rubs his chin and then adds, "I know that field of study well." He might've been looking into a plan related to it once, before he had an epiphany that mind-control was bad, burned his notes and purged all the data on his research.
    He stops brushing his hair and drops an arm over Tim's shoulders as he leans in to study it more closely. "...So you're going to try to get in there, huh?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Even as Tim's still navigating through the organized sprawl of his info-gathering, he shifts a little in his seat, angling his body so that Lonnie has a better view of the screen. He takes a deep breath, shoulders shifting lightly under Lonnie's arm, and then...

    ...doesn't look up. "Uh. So. Might have already gotten in there," he says, haltingly.

    And then without another word, he double-taps on a video file. What is clearly a clip from his mask HUD pulls up, though all of the information that is no doubt displayed across it has been stripped. Raw video. There are a handful of timestamps bookmarked on the progress bar at the bottom, and Tim touches the first one.

    It plays a clip of Tim's view as he walks through a doorway and out into a long-abandoned parking garage, though there are signs of recent construction efforts to shore up the structure. Bags of cement and various tools are propped up against a nearby wall, where a small forklift is parked. And further in, right in the middle of the garage, is a hole in the ground.

    After sweeping the area, Tim approaches it, and crouches down at its edge. It looks strangely almost like it's painted on the ground, because it's pitch black despite the lights Tim turned on moments before, but Tim reaches down over the edge and confirms that, yep, it is indeed a hole.

    "I think this is what they're doing with all of the places they've been buying up. Build, cover it up, sell it off, and the new owners have no idea what's under their feet."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Wait wait wait." Lonnie gets out his phone, and brings up the information Tim had brought up before. "Signals-" He sets up his map of the locations they had brought up before, and this one. "I took a look at that. And it really DOES look like a massive... localized network covering the entire city-" He brings up the connections between each node, and then adds another layer - the projected coverage area if each node was a powerful wi-fi router.
    "And if we add this..." He furrows his brow, and shows Tim what he's come up with. "What the heck is it. Not an Internet, something that's being set up under the whole city's nose. An Undernet? What's the POINT?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim waits. He even pauses the video playback, while Lonnie's busy with his phone. And then it's Tim's turn to lean in, practically hovering against Lonnie as he gets in close to the screen.

    "We have no idea what the signal strength would theoretically be, if that's actually what... this..."

    As Lonnie overlays his projections, Tim falls silent. He stares at the map. "Not all of these properties are sold, yet, which means they're probably not finished. This one wasn't. But--even filtering those out, they must have at least fifty, maybe sixty percent of the city covered already."

    He doesn't put forth any theories to Lonnie's last question, just sits back and steeples his fingers together against his face, eyes narrowed in thought. "This is not good."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "It is NOT." Lonnie says, before he pauses. And he gets up. "I'm going to tell you something that'll probably make you like me a lot less." He gets up, and walks over to a whiteboard. "I destroyed all the data I'd collected for this scheme -" He points at his temple, "It's all in here."
    He begins to draw an equation on the whiteboard. "I once concieved of an experiment wherein I'd alter human behavior using a massive broadcast array. My plan was to buy a building - not even the tallest one in Gotham, one of the old turn of the century early skyscrapers would do." He continues to write, the marker squeaking as he goes. "Then - and this is dabbling in what some would call 'magic' mind you, I'd capture an extradimensional being of some sort, I had a few "demons" fingered for the purpose- since each of them is a conduit to limitless extradmensional energy sources - and I'd use it to power the array. The goal was to - change people's minds. To awaken them to the clarity of rational thought and the folly of tribalism, selfishness and crime."
    "...But as I was planning it I realized that whatever my intentions, what I was planning was large-scale mind control. It went against everything I believe in. I scrapped the plan and destroyed all the data, except what's in my head." He scowls. "This is *distressingly* similar to what I had planned, though I intended to cover the city from a single point."
    "The only thing left of that plan is my online store."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Naturally, as soon as Lonnie's up and moving, so is Tim. He sets his tablet aside and stands, though he only goes so far as the armchair of the couch, where he leans, arms crossed.

    While Lonnie explains, Tim watches him write. He says nothing, though once or twice his head moves, tilting slightly to the side in a way that's vaguely questioning. And yet he keeps those questions to himself. Eventually, once Lonnie is done, Tim's eyes fall from the whiteboard to the floor.

    "Well," he says. "I definitely don't like that this was ever something you considered." Tim takes a measured breath, and then another, before he pushes himself up straight and walks over. He puts his hand on Lonnie's shoulder. "But you changed your mind. You didn't go through with it, and you did everything in your power to make sure nobody would be able to pick up where you'd left off."

    Tim's hand drops and flexes at his side, lightly. He looks away. "And that you ever considered it in the first place might be the only reason we have even a vague idea of what they're trying to do."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie pauses. And then he - rather boldly - puts his hand on Tim's chin to yank his head right back around. "Wait, wait wait wait wait."
    He furrows his brow. "Look at me. *Look at me*!"
    "...You've thought about doing something like this too, haven't you. *Haven't you*? I know you. You planned this out - how you'd do it. What you'd need to do it. It was one of your black moods, where you got so *fed up* you figured you'd protect everybody from themselves whether they wanted it or not. You reached the same conclusion I did, because *you had the same idea I did*. Didn't you?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's definitely not expecting that, so Lonnie does actually manage to force his head up.

    "What? No!" Immediately both his hands come up to grip Lonnie's arm, though he doesn't actually try to pull himself away. Or, more likely given the position, pull Lonnie away from him. "Nothing like this! I--."

    He tugs his chin free and looks away. The grip on Lonnie's arm goes bruising for a second before Tim seems to realize he's still holding on, and he lets go like he's been burned. "I've thought about what I would do. If I was... if I had more resources. What I'd do if I lost someone, how far I think I'd go if I couldn't control myself."

    His hands come up to scrub at his face harshly. "I mean, I plan *everything*. Why wouldn't I plan my inevitable descent into insanity once something finally pushes me off the deep end?" He throws his arms up into the air, hysterical. "Because that's healthy!"

    Abruptly, Tim throws himself back down onto the couch, arms folded tightly against his chest. He brings his legs up too, huddling. "It wasn't mind control. Similarly authoritative, but I guess I'm not as creative as you are. The means were much more pedestrian." His voice has gone completely flat by the end, and he blows out a heavy breath as his chin tips down.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie looks down. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Tim. You're a person who's gone through a lot whose mind functions on a very high level. We're not better than other people, but we're not normal, either. You know-" He settles in, "When I was in Juvie, I used to play a game - it was called 'break the psychiatrist'. This one I'd infuriate. That one, I'd frighten. Another, I'd win over to my side. I was angry, and it-" He scowls. "I needed to understand my own potential to manipulate people. I needed to know myself."
    "You've seen how my intentions are always good, but things - get out of hand. I need to save the world, Tim. I'll go far in order to do it. I truly do believe drastic action is required before the parasites kill us all... but I can't *hypnotize* people into doing the right thing. That'd make me a tyrant."
    He sinks down onto the couch next to Tim, and then he wraps his arms around him, hugging him tightly. "I believe you had the same epiphany as me. You have the intellect to manipulate people - and the morals to know you *can't*." He buries his face in Tim's hair. He smells like some sort of herby, organic shampoo. He probably makes it himself.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "What if the world doesn't want to be saved, Lonnie?"

    Tim shakes his head against his knees. "That's the tipping point. Would you be able to let go, if that's what it ends up being? I don't know if I could. Sometimes it feels like that's the reason nothing ever really changes." He snorts, though it's obviously humorless. "Very Greek myth. Sisyphus or Tantalus, whichever one's more appropriate, I don't know."

    But he does, so after a moment he rolls his eyes. "Tantalus. The boulder just gives way to gravity, but the fruit and the water pull away from Tantalus deliberately."

    He looks up when the couch dips with Lonnie's weight, and pretty much immediately Tim folds himself into the hug, arms lifting up to wrap around Lonnie in turn. "Ugh, this is awful," he mutters, fingers digging in. And then he huffs out a breath, against Lonnie's neck. "The whole--thing, you know. Not the hug. This is okay. Um, good." Shut up shut up shut UP Tim.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie just sort of laughs. "I think of Pratchett - where the Fallen Angel meets the Rising Ape. We're continually at war with our own natures - the base, dangerous predator and its wants and needs conflicting with the fact that we have the awareness to recognize that destructive side to ourselves, and push back against it. We keep trying - and so do I, and so will you. What's exhausting is- devoting yourself to that war and letting the other parts of yourself atrophy."
    He gives Tim a hard squeeze. "It's why I still go out to punk shows and read books that aren't about dismantling the state."
    He tilts Tim's head up and looks him in the eyes. "You're a sneaky, manipulative, obsessive perfectionist. That doesn't make you a bad guy-" He lets a long, long pause hang in the air. "...It just makes you an insufferable smarty-pants, because you're also brilliant. Even you'd kick yourself out, if you were your roommate, right?"
    "Not like me. I think I'm pretty great. Maybe that's why you succeed and I fail. I have a very high regard for myself."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim has managed to fold himself up pretty compactly, despite his size. Probably how he manages to sneak through vents and grates and the like, even while wearing heavy body armor. "Does that mean the whole saving-the-world thing is the fantasy?" he asks, and there's a hint of somber misery to his tone, but then he bumps his forehead against Lonnie's shoulder and makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

    The squeeze does a little bit to loosen him up, though.

    "Yeah, sure," he grumbles. Tim's got a wrinkle across the bridge of his nose when Lonnie pulls him up, which stays in place through the pause, and in fact actively deepens after Lonnie breaks it. "What, I'm a great roommate! I'm tidy, and basically no one ever sees me in the Roost because I migrate between two spots exclusively, *and* I can cook. Uh, like, two things, because that's all I ever eat, but I cook them *very* well!"

    He's not actively upset about the insinuation, but it's a good break away from other, harder topics. "You'd be lucky to have me hanging around," he says, chin lifting.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "Scrambled eggs and grilled cheese?" Lonnie says, before he snorts. "Yeah, even before I became Anarky, cooking was something I had to learn because there was no guarantee mom would be sober or - you know - home. So many burnt grilled cheese sandwiches. So I checked both volumes of "Mastering the art of French Cooking" out of the public library and I got to work. I learned how to do *all* of it - except for the gross stuff, like poached calves' brains, or aspic." He grimaces.
    He's still meeting Tim's gaze, practically nose to nose with him. "You're probably right. Yap likes you, and he's my most trusted adviser."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Overnight oats and rice bowls, which you'd know if you checked my Instagram. I post essentially the same two pictures every day, just in case someone from the media discovers my account. Being boring is a very effective tool."

    Tim glances to the side, narrowing his eyes in a way that generally means he's trying to remember something. Shortly, they light up with recognition. "Julia Childs, right? Wait, are you telling me you could've been baking French pastries this entire time and you actively choose not to?"

    He rearranges his legs so he's not boxing himself in quite so tightly, and again he looks away, though this time it's just to Yap, on the floor. "Of course he likes me. Yap knows quality roommate material when he sees it," he says.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    "I'm an anarchist terrorist who's out to save the world from itself." Lonnie looks down at the dog, who's passed out. "I don't have time to *bake*. I did make them once, for mom's birthday - but she was hung over, so she didn't eat them." He shrugs. "I wanted to learn how to do the hard stuff, so I'd be able to be really good at the easy stuff. And it worked. You should see me make tomato soup from the can."
    He looks down - and then he just kind of... leans his whole body weight into Tim. He's trying to push him off the couch, bit by bit.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim shakes his head. "Sorry, no, I'm not going to accept that. I want madeleines." He looks briefly perplexed to feel Lonnie leaning in against him, and he inhales, but it doesn't take him long to figure out what's really going on. And immediately he twists himself like an octopus around Lonnie, arms and legs both.

    It's basically a grapple move.

    "If I go down I'm taking you with me," he says, voice dropped low. And then: "Lemon. At the very least, I want lemon madeleines. Behave yourself or I'll ask for something with puff pastry, and that takes forever. I know about laminating dough!"

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    That actually makes Lonnie cackle. "I don't have an oven here yet! I -" He laughs, "Cook on a hot plate! Ha! Ow, OW- You're on my hair!" He finds himself nose to nose with Tim, caught in that grapple - "You do-?"
    Then he pauses, his eyes meeting Tim's and his lips but an inch or so away - his eyes really are really green. "Uh."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Should've put it up," Tim says, because apparently he's that kind of person. The edge of the couch presses against his back, right between his shoulder blades, and he's wedged his foot into the cushions somewhere behind Lonnie to keep himself from tipping over. It is very precarious.

    "I--yeah." He blinks, and he starts to unwind his arms, but immediately Tim feels himself slipping so he latches back on. "There's an equation for it. L equals f plus 1, all raised to n. L is layers, f is... um, the number of folds you put in the dough per folding move," he pauses, swallows, and his gaze skitters away. "N is the number of folding moves. I had a professor who liked math trivia."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Unfortunately Lonnie is so tall and wiry that the balance is off - and they slip and go rolling off the couch, with him still caught up in that octopus hold. And Tim's still on his hair - "Ow ow ow-" They slide off the couch. *THUD* -
    Which in a moment of ridiculous serendipity, brings Lonnie's mouth against Tim's. Which causes Gotham's favorite anarchist's breath to catch in his throat.

Tim Drake has posed:
    This is about as ungainly a situation Tim's ever found himself in, and that includes everything he went through during his years as Robin. Which was, at times, a lot. He feels the teetering of their combined weight over the equilibrium point, and Tim tries to flail out a hand to grab onto the back of the couch but it actually just serves to tip them over faster.

    And then they're on the ground.

    And then they're. Well. Kissing is a bit generous, because Tim knocks his knee against the floor and he basically grunts in pain against Lonnie's mouth, which is... not great. In his scramble to get up--off of Lonnie's hair--Tim also manages to knock the back of his head against some sharp bit of the couch that has him wincing.

    "Ow, crap--ah, I'm--are you--sorry!" Tim somehow manages to leverage himself up so he's clinging awkwardly half to the couch, torso kind of lifted off the ground, and then he reaches out to cup his hand against the back of Lonnie's head. "Sorry, I'm sorry, are you okay?" In the moment, Tim's concern outweighs any embarrassment he might be feeling.

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie is left lying there, looking monentarily dazed. "I uh-" He just lies there.
    "Sorry-" He winces. "I've never kissed anybody before. Not even a terrible accidental kiss like that. I'm fine." He starts to get up. "You were on my hair - it REALLY hurt." He braces his hands on the floor, and begins to laugh. His shoulders shake. "Oh man. I'm sorry. It's-"
    His cheeks are flushed, and he tries to look away and cover the blush. "I should-"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Enough scrambling gets Tim at least half-upright. One leg underneath him, and judging by the wince, it's the knee that he bonked. "Yeah, I--," but then his mouth snaps shut, and all Tim does is stare at Lonnie. Through the admission, and the laughter.

    Tim looks away. "Oh." He bites the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the floor. But then he shakes his head, and his chin lifts. "What'd you say--something about human connection?"

    And then before he can reconsider, which given who-slash-how he is would only take the space of a moment, Tim puts his hand on the back of Lonnie's head again. At least this time the way Tim pulls at Lonnie's hair is both intentional and gentle.

    Same for the kiss. Tim holds himself there, eyes closed, and then he reels back. The moment has elapsed and he's moved swiftly on to screeching at himself in his head as he pushes himself up, back up onto the couch. "Sorry," he says, and he sounds mortified, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked beneath them, shoulders hunched, face completely red. "I hope that was better."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie sits there, in stunned silence. His mouth is still a little bit open. "You kissed me. ...Batman's going to *blow a vein and have a coronary*. He might get so mad he *spits*." He says, before he gives a really slow grin. *Somebody* finds that thought appealing.
    He looks up at Tim, and says, "I, uh - it was. You are, *objectively*, supermodel handsome with great hair and beautiful eyes. So I see why all those insane foreign assassins are throwing themselves at you. I mean - we could try again?" He rubs his hand over his mouth. "Maybe a whole bunch more times?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Well, that at least swiftly pulls Tim out of his mortification. He stares, similarly agape, at Lonnie. "Why are you even talking about him right now!" he asks, though it's really more of a statement, and said all at once in a rush. "Lonnie!"

    His shoulders are still hunched up but it's mostly just in consternation now. Except now he's being complimented, and it's right back to being uncomfortable. Tim rolls said supposedly beautiful eyes, but then his attention cuts back to Lonnie, sharp and intent. "You--."

    There's a big pause. Some, though not all of, the tension drains from his muscles. "Um, yeah--yes. Sure, that would--." Tim covers his face with both hands and groans. "Please just get up here and make me shut up."

Lonnie Machin has posed:
    Lonnie looks up from the floor. "No way Brentwood, you come down here." He raises his eyebrows in a challenge. His fingers curl, as he fixes Tim with a defiant stare. "Have you ever-" He asks, "With a-"
    With a what, a terrorist?

Tim Drake has posed:
    No, nope, Lonnie doesn't get a chance to finish asking that question. As requested, Tim comes down there and shuts Lonnie up instead.