7980/Brunch Brings Everyone Together

Brunch Brings Everyone Together
Date of Scene:	25 September 2021
Location:	The back terrace of Wayne Manor
Synopsis:	Phoebe and Tim make up after an extended (for them) period of not talking. They have brunch at Wayne manor, and Tim gets some healz. And as usual, Alfred is the best.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Phoebe Beacon
Cast of NPCs:	Alfred Pennyworth

---

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's maybe later than the typical expected time for brunch--he woke up early, Alfred relocated him to the couch in front of the tv in the family room, and some time later he fell back asleep--but eventually Tim does send those coordinates along to Phoebe, with a follow-up question of 'waffles or pancakes? there is a correct answer btw'

    And the correct answer is pancakes. Sorry. Just how it is.

    The coordinates aren't for anywhere in Gotham proper. In fact, they take Phoebe out north of the city, across the Kane bridge, into Bristol Township, and eventually to the front gates of the Wayne Estate.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    The answer back Tim got was a zombie picture, going 'Grraaaaiiiins'. It appears she is moderately impartial.

    Phoebe sped along on the back of her beat-up cafe racer, her preferred mode of transport when public transportation wouldn't do. She's watching the GPS on her screen, and wondering what kind of restaurant would be this far out in Bristol Township. She didn't get out here real often... ever in fact. It was where a bunch of rich people lived.


    And she was just a middle-class girl from Gotham, if that.

    So when she pulls up to the Wayne Estate, she feels something grip at her chest, her shoulders tighten a moment, and then she looks down to her casual jeans, boots and biking jacket.

    "I am so under-dressed." she mutters, and she looks for the call button. These things have call buttons, don't they?

    "Ah... my name is Phoebe, I'm looking for Tim?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    There are indeed call buttons, yes. The screen above it blinks on, and an elderly fellow with grey hair and a moustache looks staidly at the camera. "Ms. Beacon," he says, clearly already familiar, and absolutely expecting her. "Yes, of course. Master Timothy is waiting for you on the terrace; please come in and I will escort you to him."

    Then something buzzes, and the gates swing open, allowing Phoebe access to the sprawling Wayne Estate. There is, of course, a very long drive she'll have to travel up first, to the massive manor that looms in the distance, and the grand double doors at the center.

    Alfred, the Wayne family butler, awaits her just outside said doors.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe keeps her motorcycle helmet on, but strongly suspects that even if she had said nothing, they would have known it was her. She revs the motor as the gates open, and then draws up the very long driveway, the manor looming in the distance.

    "... that's Alfred." she realizes quietly as she makes her way up, allowing the bike to idle for just a moment before she takes off her helmet and shakes out some very, very shortened and thicker braids. She brushes off her jacket, and leaves her helmet in its bag on her bike, unzipping her jacket to show just a soft green T-shirt beneath with cream-colored pictures of constellations, and she idally scratches her left wrist, where the white ink tattoo of the 'circle of protection' sits.

    "Good morning, you must be Alfred." she offers a smile. This smile touches her eyes. "Tim says I don't make nearly as good a cup of tea as you do."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Ms. Beacon, good morning to you as well," Alfred says, polite as ever, though warmth suffuses his tone. "Naturally. The American method for making a good cup began with throwing it into the ocean and I dare say it hasn't improved much since then."

    Ah hah, a little bit of historical humor there. His eyes twinkle, and he steps aside as he opens the door. "Please, come in. Shall I take your jacket for you?"

    All of the traditional guest-welcoming activities occur. Phoebe is directed to the nearest of the manor's many, many bathrooms should she like to freshen up before the meal, and then Alfred escorts her through to the opposite side and out into the morning air. It is an especially nice day by Gotham's standards; a touch overcast, but with a delightfully mild breeze.

    And Tim is indeed waiting for Phoebe out on the terrace, sat at a table. A pot of tea and carafe of juice (no doubt freshly squeezed) are already in place with their assorted necessary accompaniments. In front of Tim is a cup of tea, and though Tim appears to be dressed--in a plain shirt and a pair of jeans--he's also wrapped up in a massive down comforter that spills out over the arm rests of the seat. It makes him look positively marshmallow-y.

    He's also a hot mess. The only visible injuries, given how swathed he is, are a black eye and a split lip and some other bruising on his face, but it suggests a great deal more hidden away. As does the way he stiffly sits up, slightly, when Alfred and Phoebe appear.

    "Hey, Pheebs," he says quietly, while Alfred pulls out Phoebe's chair for her.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe gives a snort of laughter. "Yeah, and some people are still salty about the harbor." Phoebe replies good naturedly, and she surrenders her jacket to Alfred. "Thank you, it's a pleasure to finally meet you." she comments to Alfred. She marks the location of the bathroom, and then out to the terrace where Phoebe spies a marshmallowy Tim.

    She stiffens a moment and fights every single instinct to start with a medical evaluation. Temperature, blood sugar, aches and pains. She actually stops a moment and looks to Tim, and Tim especially would see that every fibre of her being wants to just 'fix it', because that's what Phoebe does.

    "Tim." she states softly, and then does move to sit in the seat that Alfred has pulled out for her.

    She presses her lips together a moment, and blurts out:

    "You look awful."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "That's funny," Tim says, deadpan. And then, unexpectedly, his follow-up is: "Because I feel awful."

    He and Alfred share a look that speaks to some sort of prior disagreement; in this case, regarding Tim's refusal to continue taking the pain medication that Alfred has been providing him. A moment of silent communication happens between them, before Alfred's head dips. "I'll have the food out shortly."

    The way he pivots on his heel seems mildly clipped. The argument clearly isn't over.

    Once they're alone, Tim sighs. "I had a rough day," is what he gives as explanation. He pulls his tea closer to the edge of the table before he picks it up. His knuckles are bruised and cut-up, and the movement allows the comforter to fall off his shoulder enough to show a thick bandage wrapped around his bicep, below the sleeve of his shirt. He takes a steadying sip, and then asks "How are you?"
%

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Honestly forget about my past week. unimportant." Phoebe states, slipping into the familiarity of triage. "You look like you picked a fight with a giant lawnmower and lost. I can patch you up at least to the point of mild bruising and not rolled in a bunch of razor blades. Are those bruises from hairline fractures? Are you even taking anything for the swelling?!" she asks incredulously, in a hushed voice just in case Alfred has better hearing than simply being the world's most amazing butler and confidant might give him. She purposefully moves her chair closer to Tim.

    "Even if you're still mad at me, just... let me fix this. You can't be down like this."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "No, it *isn't* unimportant," Tim responds back, more sharply than he means to judging by the faint tightening around his eyes. "You always--you don't have to carry the whole team on your shoulders, Phoebe. Yes, it's great that you're willing to heal us up, but you know that's not why I recruited you into the Outsiders, right?"

    He sets his tea down on the table, and sighs. "I didn't invite you here so you could patch me up," he points out. Saying that makes him feel like a broken record, a little bit. Eventually he'll have said it so many times that it will have functionally been proven false just by deign of repetition.

    It doesn't make him feel particularly good, which is honestly worse than the pain he's in right now. Typical Bat; dealing with injuries is easy, dealing with guilt? Well, that's why half of them dress up and go fight crime.

    "I'm taking an NSAID." Then he sighs again, weightier, which makes him close his eyes against a wince. "I'm not mad at you... well. I'm upset, because I'm worried, and I'm tired of you brushing my concerns--and the concerns of the rest of the team-off."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Pot, Kettle." Phoebe points out. "And no, you recruited me to the Outsiders because I'm willing to put my life on the line, magical healing abilities are a fortunate side-note to the fact that I'm almost as stubborn as everyone else on the team." she points out, "And somehow in the process we became the ones who could always rely on the other. "Which NSAID? How much? Not enough. I don't care how much you're taking because if it's enough for it to work it's probably killing your liver. Has someone run an ALT?" she asks, and manages to pour herself a cup of tea -- and then, after a thought, refills Tim's.

    "... if we address your concerns, can we address your injuries?" she asks, and then she sets the teapot down, and brings her hand up and wipes at her eye. "... because this has been a hellaciously lonely week for hanging out in NYC with a bunch of old British people."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim levels a flat look at Phoebe's medical questions. "Trust me, the medical care I can receive here is a match to just about any private hospital room money could buy. I'm hurting but I'm not dying."

    He makes a quiet noise of gratitude when his cup is refilled, and he brings it back up to his mouth, blowing on it before he takes another sip.

    "My concern is that you've given yourself over to the care of a stranger--a man who several of your teammates have serious reservations about--because you think the team can't, or won't, help you with your problems," he begins, and he holds up a hand to forestall any potential objections or interruptions. "Just... let me get this all out," he asks.

    Though he immediately takes another drink of his tea. "I'm not objecting to you seeking out aid from external sources, or finding a mentor figure who has particular skills you're looking to learn, but those two things are a far cry from moving yourself to an entirely different city, doing menial labor and putting yourself in difficult, dangerous situations, for the promise of training."

    His cup returns to the table. "The team misses you, Phoebe. I miss you. And we need you--not because you're our White Mage, but because you're an integral part of the team structure, and it's not the same without you." Then he bites the inside of his cheek, and his gaze shifts away, focusing elsewhere. "I'm... really worried that you're being taken advantage of. I know that might be hard to hear, but can you at least try to look at this from my perspective? We're all worried about you. And we're ready and willing to help, even if you don't think we can."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I've seen hospital set-ups and I have no doubt, but there's not a hospital that can compare to me." she states with maybe a little flat pride in her voice she comments to Tim, and she holds her tea. She takes a deep breath.

    "In this case... there is a lot going on." she takes a deep breath, and she leans back in her chair, and she listens.

    "... actually, John hates it when I put myself in dangerous, difficult situations. That's how I got grounded and had to do the menial labor. But on the other side, he doesn't have to rely on cameras and intel and investigations, he's been able to go into my past and get clues about who Julia is through magic. That's how we found out that the creatures were attracted to my aura and proximity triggered their being corpreal." she explains, and she flips her wrist up, showing the white ink.

    "He pulled me out of the afterlife by tracking me down, and pretty much forbade me from doing anything so stupid on his behalf again. It's just... hard to talk to the team about him, because I want to respect his privacy and not want him to dig into everyone else's pasts. Without the upkeep on this circle, and the wards placed at the apartment where I'm staying, I can't sleep. Those dogs... Julia... they're after me, and we don't know just *why* yet." Phoebe explains, and she looks to Tim.

    "... also, yeah, I stayed close to him because his lungs were literally liquifying because he breathed in Asteroth's breath, and it was more convenient than suddenly Trenchcoat falling out of a portal."

    Phoebe pauses, and rubs the back of her neck a moment. "He's a jerk, don't get me wrong, but on an investigation he used himself to shield me from falling limestone, Tim. And he doesn't push when I talk about 'my friends in Gotham.'"

    She draws one leg up, and sets her chin on it. "It's... actually really nice having adults who understand how stupidly scary magic powers can be."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Phoebe gave him the opportunity to speak, so Tim does the same for her. He pulls his cup into his hands and holds it, more to keep his fingers warm and occupied than to actually drink from it. And he just listens, looking across the table at her. The faintly narrow-eyed look he gets when he's deeply considering something is in place, firmly.

    "I can't say I don't still have reservations," Tim admits, once Phoebe is done. "But I hear you. I just... look, isn't there some sort of middle ground you can find? There must be some way.

    He shakes his head and frowns deeply, down into the steaming liquid in his cup. Deep enough that it tugs at the cut on his lip, and he absent-mindedly lifts a hand to press his knuckle against it. "I feel so selfish asking that, but we really do need you, Phoebe. And I just... look, maybe there's something that can be worked out so that you can spend more time in Gotham. I can reach out to some local contacts that are known to my family, see if they can help with that." His next inhale is slow, measured.

    And then Tim does something he very rarely does. He asks for something. "I need you back at the Roost. Please?"

    Maybe Phoebe will catch the brief ruffling of the curtains in one of the nearest windows. It perhaps explains why their brunch hasn't been served as shortly as it might have been expected. All in due time.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "And I note your reservations." Phoebe takes a deep breath. "Just... right now, until I'm good enough at wards and I can ward the Roost, New York is still safer. For everyone. What if one of those acid-spewing creatures appeared in the Roost, and hurt one of the dogs, or Murder Mittens? Or if it hits while you're sleeping and you don't have armor or a cape to take off?" Phoebe points out quietly. "The whole idea of moving to New York was to protect everyone I could, everyone I care about." and then she pauses a moment, and looks to Tim. She reaches out, and she holds her hand open to him.

    "Gotham is still where my heart is, Tim. Nothing is going to change that. I'll see about spending more daylight hours at the Roost, maybe?" she offers, lamely.

    "At least until I feel confident with warding it. This is something I have to do to proect the Team. To protect you."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's eyebrows draw together, and he looks down and away briefly. He doesn't sigh or give any other real outward sign of what he's feeling, but there's a subtle slump to his shoulders, mostly obscured by his burrito-wrap comforter.

    "Okay, Pheebs," he says, resigned. Then he nods at her, managing a small half-smile.

    A few moments pass before Alfred makes his reappearance, expertly balancing two covered plates. He sets them down in front of Tim and Phoebe at the table and makes a modest sweeping motion as he removes the lids to reveal a twin pair of perfectly stacked pancakes, with an artful arrangement of berries atop them. The strawberries are even fanned out. Veeeeeery fancy.

    Whipped butter, real maple syrup, and a small bowl of chocolate chips--Alfred winks as he sets that down--are provided as well. "Do let me know if you need anything else," he says before he departs back into the manor once more.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... this is the prettiest breakfast I've ever had." Phoebe remarks quietly, distracted for a moment as Alfred interrupts to lay out breakfast. "I have no idea how you were able to stay away from carbs with stuff like this as possibilities." she states to Tim, and then she takes a deep breath.

    "... I know you don't like it." Phoebe remarks quietly, looking over to Tim. "The truth is... I have no idea how my powers work. And for all his knowledge, neither does John. I'm not equipped to handle necromancers. I'm hardly equipped to handle what little bits have been thrown at me. And I /love/ you Tim. I don't want to see any of this stuff, anything that's tied to me that I can't even tackle yet affect you, or the team." she cuts into a bit of pancake, and worries at it with her fork. "There was a time I would have done anything you asked to be a part of Your Family. But my path doesn't lay that way, I think." she gives a small smile. "So I'm asking you to trust me, as much as I trust you."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Thanks, Alfred," Tim says, and despite whatever minor tension might remain between him and the butler, it's not so onerous that it spills over into every interaction.

    In fact, it sounds very much like Alfred means the "My pleasure, Master Timothy," that he responds with, before he heads back inside the manor.

    The pancakes are still steaming--huh, turns out those fancy plate covers have a purpose besides the theatrics--and Tim wastes no time sitting up, even through a grimace, to start buttering them. And he's definitely not holding back on account of any diet or calorie counting he might be doing otherwise. "Rigorous self-doubt that fed my willpower, mostly," he answers, which is... kind of a joke. He shrugs one shoulder, tightly.

    "I love you too, Pheebs... but the thing is, this stuff? It's already affecting us, whether you like it or not. The only thing that's different is that you're making yourself face it without your team backing you up."

    He sighs as he drowns his pancakes in syrup and then adds some chocolate chips, because he wants to. No one is here to tell him he shouldn't, and apparently that self-doubt isn't loud enough for him to listen to, in this moment. "I do trust you. But I also see myself in you--especially my bad habit to self-sacrifice."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Yeah, I get you there. The amount of times I've gotten injured you'd think I'd get over the pain--" she winces a moment, her nose wrinkling a moment. "I was /this close/ to talking to you about possible eating disorders, but it's tough to try and call out your team lead, even if you're the medical person. Especially because you're my best friend." Phoebe replies, and she takes a deep breath.

    "I'm not leaving you guys out. I give updates, but it's hard to try and fit everyone for a meeting in my tiny bedroom at the Laughing Magician." Phoebe gives a sidelong smile. She pours some syrup over hers.

    "... yeah. Actually, a lot of people have seen that in me." she gives an embarrassed bit of a laugh.

    "That, I think I get from my dad. Fireman and everything."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "My diet is part controlling the controllables, and part avoiding decision fatigue. That's why I wear the same things when I'm out being a civilian--it's a lot of work, running the team alongside all of my other responsibilities. School I don't care about, a job I'm pretending to do for appearances." Tim rolls his eyes as he cuts his pancakes methodically into pieces with his fork and knife.

    Even about to carb overload, he's still the same old Tim.

    He takes a bite, chews, and twirls his fork between his fingers. "You are, though," he says, after. "You've planted yourself in-between us and the danger. How would you feel if Conner did that with N.O.W.H.E.R.E.?"

    Then he shakes his head. "I really don't want to argue with this. Immovable object versus unstoppable force, and I don't want our friendship to be the thing that gets crushed in-between. Just... know I'm going to keep sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong, and that I do it out of love, okay?" he asks.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Tim, pretty sure our friendship is world-transcending." Phoebe replies with a wry smile, pointing her fork at him. "And don't get me started about school. Because I was expelled I don't get that college funding from the Fireman's Orphans, but I still have to go to the gala and be all poor orphan."

    The girl with the braids gives a small smile, and she looks to Tim.

    "That's because it got bigger than I expected really, really quickly." she admits. "I wasn't expecting it to be my cousin sending creatures after my friends and family."

    Phoebe's pancakes become a chaotic pile of fruit, carbs and syrup. "And I'm not arguing. This is a discussion. Like adults, that doesn't require me making a seven thousand mile, eighteen hour round trip and punching someone in Whitechapel."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim gets another perfectly proportioned bite on his fork before he looks back up at Phoebe. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do," he says, of the gala. "But if you want me to show up and do the Wayne money thing, you know I will. Actually, I'd really like to buy Lonnie a plate too just to annoy him."

    He smiles down at his plate, and it's a little devious.

    "Do you have an outfit for it, already? If not, you know I have a tailor I can get you set up with," he says, and then finally takes the bite that has been precariously balanced on his fork this entire time.

    The fork is set down to exchange with Tim's cup of tea, and he leans back carefully into his chair. "Okay, spill. Why did you fly all the way to the UK to punch someone?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "You should totally do it. Dress Lonnie up. Have Alfred do it, pretty sure Alfred will do the no-nonsense thing. He seems like he would just to make sure Lonnie's good enough for you." Phoebe grins, and she rubs the back of her head a moment. "No, if I show up in too fancy an outfit, people are going to question. Usually I'd borrow something from a friend from school, but the last two dresses she let me borrow kiiinda got toasted in a gunfight or lost in the harbor." she states, rubbing the back of her head again in embarrassment as she looks up. "And I've got to go. I'm the 'example kid' since when my dad joined the Gotham FD, we were living in the Narrows, just at the edge. So from the age of fourteen on they were like 'Here! Here is an orphan who is extra orphany and also minority and we're going to make an example out of her!'" she pauses to spear a piece of pancake. "... which is why my mom's never in any of the pictures from it." she adds on, resting her chin in her other hand. "I'll find something in one of the second-hand stores. It's only for one night."

    And then Tim catches it, and she raises her eyebrows a moment and looks a bit nervous.

    "Uh... there was... a fight." she begins. "... and after I asked for advice on how to handle a situation I accidentallied into a dream sequence of a suburban sitcom until everyone involved had to get something off their chest, but there was a bit blow-out so I had to travel to London and got so mad on the way there I suckerpunched an angel who's a friend of John's."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    And then Phoebe stuffs her mouth full of pancake so that she stops talking.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim manages to chew through several more bites while Phoebe talks. For a second he does cut his gaze away towards the manor, like he expects Alfred to be there listening in when Phoebe talks about him, but the butler is far too stealthy to be caught like that.

tHisnd then Tim is just... chewing. And listening.

    Slowly, as Phoebe begins her London story, his expression begins to change. His eyes--well, mostly just the one that isn't black--start to widen, and his eyebrows rise towards his hairline, and his fork stops making regular trips between his plate and his mouth. Instead it's held in the middle-distance, sort of frozen.

    It takes a moment to process. Maybe a long enough moment that Phoebe can actually chew through that massive mouthful of pancake.

    Eventually, Tim settles on, "...well, I'm going to assume the angel deserved it. Good job, Phoebe."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... yeah. Kinda did. He admitted it afterwards. Good thing I had the fake passport and everything from you, otherwise I would never have made it past security. I came back to 17 missed calls, 34 texts and Chas picked me up at the airport. Picked myself up a 'Mind the Gap' T-shirt though, since I neeeever get souvineers whenever I go overseas. On account of, y'know, typically being on missions or errands." she gives a small smile, and leaves it at the most general terms. Tim doesn't need to know the sordid details.

    "But, in around about way the spell worked. I got the advice I needed on how to handle a situation, and then I got an invite to brunch." she pauses, and looks out "... at Wayne Manor." she pauses again, and looks to Tim with a smile.

    "You should totally bring Lonnie to the gala. I mean, it's a bunch of rich people doing bougie rich people stuff, but it's also" she sets her fork down, and refills Tim's tea, then goes back to her pancakes, "...to benefit the orphans of volunteer and career firefighters. It was pretty much the highlight and most exciting thing when I was fifteen and sixteen. You know, before I became a su--" she pauses "... Alfred's in the know, right?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's, yeah, probably for the best that Tim isn't given any of the details. Not that he couldn't do some digging and uncover at least some of them, but he has been remarkably good about respecting Phoebe's privacy.

    That she knows about, at least.

    No, he's been good. He hardly spies on his teammates at all!

    "Alfred wouldn't let me say no to breakfast," he admits. "I'm glad I got to share it with you, though."

    He drags his next bite of pancakes through the syrupy puddle at the bottom of his plate. "There's no way he'll come, but I'll buy a plate for him anyway. Then we can spend the evening making up more and more ridiculous excuses for why there's someone missing."

    Just as Phoebe asks about Alfred, Tim takes his next bite. The timing makes it seem almost intentional! His uninjured eye widens, and he gives a frantic little shake of his head... only to devolve into snorts once he's done chewing. And then that, of course, makes him wince and clutch his ribs.

    "It's fine," he says, after. "Your secrets are safe with him."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Just wanted to check. Because I'm not leaving here until you're looking better. And honestly it'd just be easier if you said 'yes Phoebe, I'm hurt, heal me with maaagic'" she poorly imitates Tim's voice. It's squeaky. She's doing it on purpose "... because I respect you but Imma be a pest until you look presentable. Which can be five minutes or two weeks. Just would be awkward to explain to Alfred how your looks suddenly changed." Phoebe points out, and then she delivers A Look to Tim.

    "Also until you can laugh without having to grab your sides. Seriously. What painkillers are you on, because it's not enough."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim takes in an achingly slow breath and lets out an exhale after that is just as carefully moderated. "Yes, Phoebe," he says. "I'm hurt. Heal me with magic." The voice he uses to say it is as flat as possible, just to counterpoint Phoebe's terrible, terrible imitation.

    "...mainly focus on the face, though. You're right, I need to be presentable at least. I *am* actually going to take the weekend off from costume stuff, so don't burn a whole lot of energy on the rest of my injuries."

    He pauses. "Actually," he adds. "Please keep some of them. I need the excuse to stay in bed." There is no mention in there about what painkillers he's on, pointedly, because he's refusing to take them.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Ugh, fiiine. I'll focus on the face, but that means I have to put my hands on your head." Phoebe gives a slight grin, and she wipes her hands on a napkin, and carefully tucks it beneath her plate. She'll need to eat the rest of those after this.

    "One thing I did learn early on is that when I was healing, I was pulling on three different magics. Now that I can just pull on one, it's actually... y'know. Easier. Not as consuming." she states as she stands to move her chair around to the back of Tim.

    "And I highly encourage you taking the weekend off from any nightshifts. Go hang out with Lonnie and do aggro-rat things." she jokes lightly.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim sets his knife and fork down as well and wipes his hands too, even though he's not actually going to be involved in this whole process. "I don't know if Alfred has oreos in stock but if you ask nicely he'll let you raid the secret stash he has. A lot of it's imported stuff." He pulls his hands back into his blanket burrito while Phoebe settles herself down.

    "I really like maltesers, as it turns out," he says. And then one corner of his mouth twitches into a smile, but then immediately after he looks downward, brow furrowing. "I--yeah. I think I'm going to go crash at Lonnie's place. Kind of get away from everything for a while."

    He rubs his thumb against a cut on his knuckle and exhales slowly. "I'm glad you're making progress with your magic, Phoebe. I really am," he adds, after a brief silence.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... thank you. That means a lot. Because my mom found out and now wants me back in church for an exorcism to get rid of them." Phoebe states quiet, and she takes a deep breath, and she brings up her hands to either side of Tim's cheeks, her fingers grazing against his jaw.

    "... I will break my vegetarianism for Jelly Babies, but pancakes should do nicely. I'm not going to raid Alfred's secret store." she gives a small smile, and relaxing, she concentrates and focuses, pulling on the Healz and letting it flow. It's the same feeling, warm and cold at the same time, tingling, repairing skin and blood vessel and bone, focusing on Tim's poor face to ease up the bruising, trying to keep her work skin-deep, as it were. It's a challenge.

    ... mostly because she *really* wants to fix it all and have it done so she doesn't have to worry about her besty!

Tim Drake has posed:
    "You don't need an exorcism," Tim answers, just as quiet. He folds his hands in his lap and tries to stay still, though at the delicate touch of Phoebe's fingers to his face, his shoulders hunch up a little bit. At least with Phoebe behind him, Tim can grimace to his heart's content without her seeing.

    As the healing magic works its way through him, Tim struggles to keep from moving. Even though he should be used to it, he isn't. Maybe he never will be, beause he's just that ill-suited to magic and its use. But he grips his hands together and powers through it, until it doesn't hurt for him to move his jaw. Chewing must have been miserable. It's a wonder he was able to enjoy those pancakes at all.

    He takes in a breath. "He wouldn't mind," Tim says, of Alfred's stash of sweets.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I know I don't." Phoebe replies gently, "but it's... really comforting to know that if I didn't have this, you still would have trained me."

    She feels Tim tense, and she draws her fingers back a little bit, her palms resting beneath his ears. The magic works its way around those injuries on his head, down to his neck and his shoulders. Muscle groups. Making it not hurt to move. Meandering its way along as she carefully pulls her power, like pulling a punch.

    "Untense your shoulders a bit. The muscle fibers can't knit. Incidentally, this is how I'm able to intense work out for hours at a time. I just heal my lactic acid and muscle tears, and good to go." she jokes.

Tim Drake has posed:
    im snorts. "Of course I would. Having some flavor of superpower isn't all that uncommon in the world any more, but finding someone as stubborn as you are? Now *that's* rare. You didn't let Gotham chew you up and spit you out, so you'd already proved yourself to me just by that."

    As the flow of Phoebe's magic starts to move down his spine, Tim does as she says. He takes one breath in and then as he exhales his body relaxes in what is clearly a well-practiced move, likely something he does just prior to meditation.

    Not that he's made a lot of time for meditation, lately.

    "So it's not that you're rapidly encouraging the replacement of myofibrils as much as you're allowing the natural process to happen, just without the typical rest period in-between," he says. Hey, look, he can at least understand the biological mechanics that result from Phoebe's magical powers. It's something.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I couldn't let Gotham chew me up and spit me out. I know it's worth saving, and worth fighting for. That is the greatest lesson that my dad taught me -- that anything you love is worth protecting. Worth fighting for. And there is nothing that I wouldn't do for the people I love." she smiles, her fingers curling just a little bit against Tim's jaw as she presses her palm a little harder against him. "Sorry. My wrist is itching a little bit. Psychosomatic." she explains away the motion.

    "Exactly. It's less 'cellular regression to an undamaged point' and more 'perfect progression and regeneration', which doesn't allow for scarring or fatigue. Because it doesn't respect time, damage to cellular structure or if your organs are partially there." she explains. She's done a lot of organ repair. "The magic of it is that it *doesn't* respect time, damage that would result in scarring or lack of function. It's like it never happened, but if I wanted a six pack I could *get it* in like a week of really intense training."

Tim Drake has posed:
    And those feelings are hardly any different to the way Tim feels, himself. He might occasionally exhibit the same dark humor that a lot of Gothamites tend to have, but he's just as vocal about his dislike of every other city that isn't Gotham. Home is home, even if it's far from perfect.

    "The... protection seal?" Tim asks, regarding the itching. They're moving past his understanding very quickly here, so maybe that explains the way he relaxes further when they immediately return to the topic of biology.

    He frowns thoughtfully. "Right. So your healing magic also accounts for fibroblast creation--in that it regulates it better than the human body generally does." Beneath the comforter he's bundled up in, Tim's arm flexes lightly, testing the pull at his ribs. Definitely better than before. "The real key to having a six pack is overworking your body and starving yourself," he points out. "At least if we're talking movie star abs."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Ugh, I know it, one of the guys you'll meet went through a period of self-harm with an eating disorder. Just as a head's up in case you see us all making sure he eats." Phoebe gives a small smile.

    "And yeah, the seal. Circle. It requires regular recharge, but acts as sort of a tracker for John. Same thing that the domino does, as far as tracking goes." she explains.

    "Movie Star abs are such a waste of time anyway. Nothing really attracted me to that body type because it's just... fake." she laughs a moment, and adjusts her hands.

    "My magic does pretty much everything better than the human body does -- healing wise, anyway. You can't regenerate your liver in a five-minute session. But I can."

Tim Drake has posed:
    As Phoebe continues to work her healz, Tim starts to move. Testing things that were previously painful, and admittedly they still are, though to a significantly lesser degree. So he sits forward slightly, and then twists in his seat to look back at Phoebe. "Thanks," he says. At least he no longer looks like a truck backed up directly into his face any more.

    "And I know you're going to need to carb up after that, so--" He leans forward, which is a nice thing to do now that he doesn't want to scream when he moves, and dumps the rest of the container of chocolate chips onto Phoebe's plate. They're no oreos but they are chocolate. Significantly higher quality chocolate than anything in an oreo, admittedly.

    "We still need to figure out my character sheet before we head out. Plus all the gear we need to make sure we have together."

    At some point Alfred comes back to tidy up their plates and silverware, and he doesn't arrive empty-handed. He hands a small reusable bag over to Phoebe. "I understand your efforts to keep Master Timothy in top form can be draining, so I hope you don't mind terribly if I offload some leftovers from last night's dinner on you," he says, and indeed inside are some very nice quality glass containers. Risotto, roasted vegetables, a very fancy salad. All vegetarian.

    And a packet of oreos. Which is strange, because Tim never told Alfred about that bit.