8373/The Secret Life of Jack Drake: Book Hangover

The Secret Life of Jack Drake: Book Hangover
Date of Scene:	21 October 2021
Location:	Wayne Manor
Synopsis:	After the Iron-Bound Book of Skelos is stolen from the hidden room in the remains of the Drake Estate, a strategic retreat is made to neighboring Wayne Manor by Tim, Zatanna, and Jonathan to recuperate from the injuries sustained during the theft. Everyone is okay, in the sense that none of them are okay but they're all making attempts in their own ways to pretend that they are. Alfred Pennyworth remains the best butler in the world.
Cast of Characters:	Tim Drake, Jonathan Sims, Zatanna Zatara
Cast of NPCs:	Alfred Pennyworth

---

Tim Drake has posed:
    It must be said that Alfred Pennyworth is the preeminent example of a butler. He has very little to say beyond a few polite requests for assistance from Jonathan, namely in helping support Tim's weight as he limps to the car. Alfred carries Zatanna himself, and in short order they've made the drive back to Wayne Manor. This is, of course, where the Archivist's help is no longer needed, and thus he is installed in one of the manor's guest rooms, told to take advantage of the attached bathroom, given directions to the kitchen should he require sustenance, and then... left on his lonesome.

    For a while, at least. Long enough that somewhere else in the manor, both Zatanna and Tim have (hopefully) received medical aid, no doubt by a fleet of the most gifted medical professionals money can buy. It's not as if the Waynes would go to Gotham General, after all, and Zee clearly has some sort of long-standing relationship with the family.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon is quiet the entire time. Polite, and he'll speak when spoken to, but he's in a weird place at the moment. Even aside from the weirdness of "being around people who have actual butlers," there's the whole "my voice got stolen to open an evil book, the contents of which got downloaded into my head."

    He paces, at first, in the overly-posh (to him, anyway) guest room, fretting about Zatanna and Tim. Then, reasoning that pacing and fretting isn't doing any good, he goes to take a shower. Maybe that will get rid of the lingering sense of... /wrongness/ he feels clinging to him, draped over him like a funeral shroud.

    It doesn't really help. He spends enough time curled up on the floor of the shower crying that his toes and fingers get pruny. But it's not as if he hasn't been doing that regularly lately anyhow.

    Finally, when the water's gone cold and he's in danger of shriveling into a raisin, Jon goes to get dressed in his own clothing again, fishes out the micro-recorder he's been carrying around in his pocket, and tries to make some kind of sense of what happened in the past few hours.

    It doesn't really work, either. How can you /possibly/ record down in words the things now seared into his brain?

    So by the time anyone comes to check on him, the recorder's been abandoned and Jon's just lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, humming to himself. Carly Rae Jepsen, of all things. It's soothing, okay? CRJ can soothe just about anything.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Wayne Manor at night is still. Most of it isn't put to active use; dozens of rooms with sheets thrown over the furniture, dust motes hanging in the beams of moonlight that slip in through the curtains.

    Somewhere, down the hall, slowly: Click. Click. Click.

    And then comes a knock at the door. The rooms are decently sound-proofed despite the age of the building, so whoever's on the other side probably doesn't know about Jon's secret CRJ self-soothing. Presuming he stops humming to call out a "Come in" or some such similar, the door opens. Standing there is Tim.

    Well, okay, he's not really standing. He has crutches underneath his arms, in an old, faded t-shirt advertising some punk band's tour schedule, and a pair of shorts that aren't long enough to obscure the bandages around his thigh. He looks like he shouldn't be up and moving around, and yet here he is, pale and diminished but alive.

    "Zatanna's going to be okay," he reports.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon did indeed call out to say 'come in,' and sits up rapidly on seeing Tim. He opens his mouth to ask the question that Tim almost immediately answers, and some of the tension goes out of his shoulders.

    "Oh, thank the gods," he says. He eyes the crutches and bandages. "You, I suspect, should not be up and about." There's the tiniest edge to his voice, the medical professional used to having to chide his patients. "But... thank you for telling me."

    Someone who didn't know better might suspect Jon was entirely fine, but there's still that tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his voice, the way his eyes don't /quite/ want to focus on things. He, too, should probably not really be up and about, but what other choice do either of them have?

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim nods once, at Jon's reaction the news. As he expected, clearly. He starts to hobble his way into the bedroom, aimed at the desk against the far wall, but--nope, okay, well, it was a long trek up here and the momentary loss of momentum when he reached the door was apparently enough for the effort and stress of it to catch up--instead Tim just barely staggers his way to the bed, whereupon he half-sits, half-falls onto the edge with a clatter of his crutches.

    He's okay, though! After a moment of holding his breath, expecting more pain than what actually comes. Then he sets his crutches aside. "I definitely shouldn't be. When Alfred finds me, I'm a dead man." Oh, it's definitely a question of 'when' and not 'if'.

    "But if I were in your position, I would be freaking out right now, so." The tone of Tim's voice doesn't suggest he thinks Jon is freaking out, mostly because Tim is polite like that. He knows, though. And there's the exact same tension in his shoulders, though he has that practiced control in his voice. Which is maybe just as much a red flag as anything.

    He puts both his hands on his knees, fingers twitching with obvious desire to pick at his bandages, judging by how he eyes them. "I see he put you in the Slytherin suite," Tim says, after a moment.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon half-starts up from the bed to try to help Tim, and then stops himself. There's something about the young man, a sense that he might not appreciate the help. Or, then, maybe he would, but Jon barely knows him so he... leaves better off alone.

    He shifts himself around so that he's sitting facing Tim, and says, "I... hadn't noticed." He glances around, says with a faint smile, "I'm more of a Ravenclaw, myself. Should I be offended at the implication?"

    A similar kind of practiced control, there. Not /quite/ the same, but... joking because what else can you... /do/, given... everything? But he's watching Tim with compassion, sympathy. However awful things were for Jon, they were more personally impactful for Tim.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's quick to say, "It's okay," when Jon makes that aborted movement to offer assistance. The way he says it suggests it has less to do with Tim not appreciating the help as it does with him not wanting to be a bother. It's not much of a difference, admittedly, but it's something.

    He scratches his fingers against some of the embroidery in the bedding. "I used to think Alfred didn't get the Harry Potter references when I made them, but it's probably more that he just refused to acknowledge them. Either way, there's nothing to read into." The corners of his mouth twitch. "Yeah, same here--I'd offer to give a tour of the library downstairs, but," well for one he's already exhausted, "I feel like we've had enough dealing with books for a while."

    His head tilts, away, making it more difficult to see his expression. Though even in profile, the furrow of his brow and the sudden thousand-yard-stare is still visible. It passes, though, and Tim exhales slow and steady. "Are you okay? After--what happened?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon... shudders, and looks away, at 'enough dealing with books.' His shoulders hunch. "I'm fi--" And then he stops. There's a similar sort of 'don't want to be a bother' reaction, there.

    I mean, hey, at least it's maybe hopeful, right? Queer, Ravenclaw, similar reactions to trauma... live long enough, Tim, and you, too, could be like Thoth Dad!

    Jon huffs out a slow breath, though, and then says, "I'm... not okay." He laughs, shakily. "I'm /really, really/ not. I don't even know where to... how to..." He stares down at his hands. "I don't have the... the words to describe..." He pauses. Frowns. No, he... /does/, but they feel too weighty for what happened. It was all mental, nothing /physical/ happened to him.

    Of course, he of all people should know better, but the impulse to minimize trauma is fairly natural.

    So it's probably not surprising when he looks up and says, "What about you? That... that must have been a terrible shock, learning such horrible things about your father." That he evidently had gone /purposefully/ looking for the Most Evil Book In The World, Jon means.

Tim Drake has posed:
    The way that Tim's head rolls to look over at Jon when he tries (and ultimately fails) to claim that he's fine... he doesn't even have to say anything. Somehow the deadpan disbelief is communicated through that look alone. He acknowledges the honest admission that follows with a faint nod, though. And Tim doesn't interrupt as Jon verbally works through how he's feeling, though he is listening.

    "It's a lot to process," is what Tim settles on saying in reply. Which feels like such a non-response, but everything is just so far beyond his wheelhouse that he really doesn't know what else to say. This isn't Tim Wayne, heir to a billionaire's fortune, this is Tim, the college kid who just found out some really awful things about his father.

    And they are similar enough that, when Jon turns things around onto him, Tim just shakes his head and minimizes his own trauma too. "We weren't... close." His gaze drifts away, into the middle distance. Then he blinks. "It's been nearly three years since his death. I wasn't expecting any surprises."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods slowly. "I understand the feeling. Imagine my surprise when I woke up one morning to find my grandmother's been carrying around a veritable library of experience in her head and has enemies I didn't even know existed, and they all got... passed on to me. At least she wasn't hoarding demon-haunted books. I hope." He sighs, and then hesitantly reaches out to place a hand on Tim's shoulder. "I'm... sorry you had to find out like this. I..."

    He hesitates. Looks at the bandage on Tim's leg. "I'm sorry. For all of it. You... called me in and asked me to help, and everything just got... worse." Because of /course/ we're going to feel /guilty/ about this, what else would one expect?

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
    Alfred precedes Zatanna into the room carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers of peonies, roses and ranunculus in shades of pink followed by Zatanna in a black tailed tuxedo and white tie.

    "Hello darlings," she wishes them, as Alfred deposits the flowers in a tall cut-crystal vase that Zee has in her arms and deposits them on a table. "Thank you Alfred, I'll put in the water while I catch up on these two."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "To be honest, I knew as soon as we uncovered a hidden room with a foot-thick wall of concrete blocking it off that nothing good was going to come of it," Tim replies with a modicum of forced levity in his voice. Look, he's done his fair share of 2AM deep-dives on TV Tropes. His fingers continue to pick at the threads on the bedding--no one tell Alfred, please--which is probably a sign of anxiety that he wouldn't let show if he didn't have a bevy of pain meds working its way through his system right now.

    His only reaction to the physical touch of Jon's hand on his shoulder is a faint leaning in, before he slumps. Which is precisely how Alfred and Zatanna find them, sat on the edge of the guest bed, a pair of crutches resting next to Tim.

    Immediately Tim's hand leaps away from where it's worked a thread loose from the embroidery on the comforter so that he can claps his hands together between his bare knees. He looks up, and then back down again, as Alfred levels him with a narrow-eyed look that communicates an entire lecture in the space of a heartbeat. But he only nods to Zatanna and tells her, "Of course," before he butles his way right back out of the room.

    Tim looks up at Zatanna, relief on his face at seeing her moving around. "Glad to see you up and about." Which he himself shouldn't be, but... well. Bats gonna Bat.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's entire expression brightens on seeing Zatanna. He springs up from the bed, goes to... well, he doesn't /actually/ hug her, but he /offers/ a hug. Because he's a touchy, huggy person but not everyone is, and he understands boundaries are important.

    "Gods, it's good to see you're alright. You gave us quite the scare." Says the man carrying around horrific ancient knowledge in his head. "Are you /certain/ you should be up and about? Tim here should not," he indicates the younger man, "but I get the feeling he's going to be hearing enough about that soon enough."

    He's clearly /not/ as okay as his words and tone try to make out. He's strained, worn, tense, but trying very very hard to be supportive to the people who've, you know, /actually been physically hurt/ and all.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Amused at Alfred's ability to lecture without a single word spoken, she smiles faintly while rearranging the flowers on the night stand. "Of course, I'm up and about. /I/ wasn't shot. I slept for 24 hours because of the antihistamines and short of a few bruises, I'm right as rain. So, yes, Jon," she says fixing him with a look from under her eyebrows, "I am sure I should be up. How is the patient?" She asks with annoying cheerfulness.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There is, predictably, no springing up from Tim. On the account of the bullet wound (now sewn shut, at least) in his thigh. "Rich people make terrible patients," he says, both eyebrows going up, before he smiles. "The flowers are very pretty, Zee."

    Something about the way he looks at the bouquet is vaguely nostalgic, and his cheeks tinge a little pink before he reaches up to scrub his face with one hand. "I'm alright. Extremely high on pain killers." Which is only a bit of a fib--he's definitely got some in his system, but not nearly the amount he suggests. So it's partially drugs, partially Bat willpower that has him up and about. "I haven't been able to look into the uninvited guest that we had yesterday, but... I mean, the photo evidence was there. She definitely knew my dad."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Once she's done with flower arranging, Jon goes ahead and hugs Zatanna, even if it's just a brief squeeze, then looks her over with a physician's eye. Having satisfied himself that his friend is, indeed, alive and okay--and that hug was maybe more for himself than Zatanna--he goes to sit back down.

    "He is, as you can see, stubborn and willful but as he points out, rich people make /terrible/ patients." He smirks, as if he has some experience with that himself. Presumably on the 'doctor' side of the equation.

    "Your father was... archaeologist, or gentleman adventurer? Did he have formal training, is my question." What he knows of the Drakes is that they're rich, and that's about it--it's not that he isn't endlessly curious about everything, but the personal lives of people he never thought he'd meet aren't /terribly/ interesting to him. Sort of a baseline thing. He'd listen if someone was gossiping, but until now he wasn't going to pry.

    Now, he's going to pry. He has questions. But... this first.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
    Why is it that those around her assume that Zatanna is made of steel? Is it because she is not prone to emotional melt-downs or doesn't show her feelings easily? She needed the hug given her as much or more than Jon might imagine, and returns it warmly, looking at Tim over his shoulder, wondering at his reaction to the flowers.

    "We /do/ need to talk that evening out."

    After a brief look around the room, she picks up a straight backed chair correctly, holding it on either side of its spine and walks it over to Tim's bedside. Once seated, she asks, "What have you all figured out? I, on my side, have been trying to trace that Black Witch. Without much success," she adds, glumly.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Now that Tim is a burgeoning young adult--and not so desperately insecure about his place in the world--he really has no issue making jokes at his own expense. So he just holds his hands out, palms up, in a 'welp, what can you do!' sort of gesture at Jon.

    And with Alfred's piercing gaze still in the back of his mind, Tim cups his hands around his bare knees rather than picking at the bedding, or at his own bandages, where they peek out from the bottom of his shorts.

    "He had a Masters in Anthropology from Gotham University," he answers. "He was officially retired, but up until he was paralyzed he was still semi-active in the community. Which is why this doesn't really make sense." Both of his hands curl into fists tight enough that his knuckles go white, but only for a second. What he really wants to do is do more anxious fiddling, at least subconsciously, but the shift in conversation has him fighting to be... well, as professional as one can be when they're injured and wearing what basically amounts to pajamas.

    Tim shakes his head, and then looks up at Zatanna. "My dad--it's bad enough that he purposefully sought all of that stuff out, but keeping it for himself like some sort of..." He doesn't even know how to continue that sentence. "He was well-respected. He sat on the board of directors for the RPA!" That's the Register of Professional Archaeologists, which is the de-facto governing body in the field that guides the standards and ethics of the community, for reference.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon sighs. "If there is one thing I have learned in my life, it's that no amount of professional credentials ensures that a person is... ethical or moral." He pauses. "We should not judge your father without knowing more about him. Perhaps he was tricked by Sophia Cobb as much as we were. Perhaps... he dug into something dark and terrible and then thought better of it. We won't know unless we try to learn--"

    He stops. Closes his eyes, and shudders. "We shouldn't," he whispers. "We... /shouldn't/ pursue this. What was in that book... /no one/ should have that knowledge."

    He can't manage to uphold 'no I'm fine, really,' anymore. He pulls his feet up onto the bed--he's wearing socks, at least, and not shoes, so Alfred need not be upset--and wraps his arms around his legs, burying his face in his knees.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
    Zee fills in the blank in Tim's sentence, "...like some sort of Zoo director for the Occult. I loved your father as much as he let himself be loved but he really should have known better than to do that." She cuts herself off, unwilling to wound her nephew with her opinion. She is of the firm opinion that occult objects when known to be magic (they do sometimes escape the notice of non-sorcerers) should be under magical lock and key wards.

    "He was well-respected in his field. I think," she says with a quick glance at Jon as though he could confirm her suspicion," that he was under the influence of that witch."

"I'm so so sorry you were subjected to that, Jon. We are /not/ pursuing what is in the book but how to get it out of the hands of Sophia and destroy it if it can be destroyed. I rather doubt it."

    Rising from her place, she walks around the bed to stand behind Jon, putting the weight of her hands on his shoulders to anchor him in the now. She shakes her head ruefully at Tim. Consummate stage performer, she won't let either of them know just how panicked she feels over something more powerful than a nuclear warhead being unleashed on the world. Again.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Ugh," is all Tim can say when they continue discussing the potential for his father to have been... unethical, at the very least. Potentially not a good person. Mind-controlled, maybe? And, Tim shows his age as he flops back onto the bed so he can stare up at the ceiling.

    Look, he's 20, he's still very much a kid underneath all of his grim professionalism.

    He squeezes his eyes closed, but then he feels the movement of the mattress and his head turns to peer over at Jon. Then, his arm flails out so that he can semi-awkwardly put his hand on Jon's leg. Pat-pat. "Ultimately it's my responsibility to deal with that being out in the world," he tells both Jon and Zatanna. "I was the one that told them to open that room up. Dad left the land to me. Why he didn't... maybe he never thought that it would be found."

    But everything Zatanna has said suggests that this book, whatever it is, would never have allowed itself to remain hidden for long.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon leans into Zatanna's touch, a silent sob escaping him. Then another. Then he drags his breath in, shakily, and pulls back from his knees enough to fix Tim with a very firm stare, even if it's ruined just a bit by being watery and his glasses being a little crooked. "You opened up the room... but it was /my/ voice that she used to open the book. /I/ was the one that touched it, both times. I am not... I will not abandon you in the effort to... track down the witch and stop her from... whatever it is she wants to do."

    He shudders. He has guesses, horrible guesses, at what, exactly, that might be.

    Then he goes on, "Besides, e-even if we destroy the book... a good chunk of it is in the Archive now. Unless... unless there's a way to cleanse that, it's... /there/. Forever."

    He laughs, a sound /just/ this side of sheer madness. "Which is /precisely/ how the damn thing works! Bury the knowledge, and it just... finds a way to be unearthed, a way to continue. S-somehow we have to stop the witch, destroy the book, /and/ scrub the knowledge out of my head in order to keep the world completely safe."

    No big deal, right?

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
What Zatanna does not tell Jon is that scrubbing the knowledge out of his head is well within her purview. One of the darker arts she possesses and is careful to hide from general knowledge. Or is it partly shame? Batman would know. She presses harder into Jon's shoulders, wishing she could blank his pain which knifes through her like it was her own.

"Thoth," she says with a certainty that surprises her, "will not release that knowledge though even the Gods have been tricked."

Tim Drake has posed:
    The attempts at being reassuring are perhaps somewhat diminished by Tim struggling, afterward, to get himself back into a seated position. Maybe Alfred gave him more pain medication than he thought. Did he drug the tea again?

    Tim gives a little shake of his head. "End the world?" he suggests, for Sophia's potential nefarious purpose. And even as a Gothamite and someone who was definitely alive when No Man's Land went down, he's rather unbothered by the thought of an impending apocalypse.

    There's already so many of those going around. Really, the only difference is that this one feels personal.

    "Right," he says, only a little bit out of breath from the ordeal. "So. I'd say out first step would be to figure out what my dad was up to when they were... partners," that is said dubiously, "But almost everything was lost in the fire. Unless there's... more secrets hiding somewhere." Admittedly, he didn't do a thorough search after his father died. It didn't seem necessary, at the time.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon casts Zatanna a grateful look over his shoulder, with the hint of a smile. "That is true... so long as no Hell Lords get their hands on the Archive." Which is a thing that's potentially a problem, evidently.

    Then he focuses on Tim. Yes, okay, plans. Plans are good. "Perhaps somewhere in that room, or elsewhere on the property. Or... in a bank vault somewhere? On a hard drive?" He shifts himself, tries to uncurl from his huddled position. "And look into the witch... you said you were doing that, Zatanna?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
    "That I am. High and low. Through every channel of the occult I can." She pats Jon's shoulder thoughtfully looking into the middle distance as something occurs to her. "Do you know the story of Demeter searching for her daughter after she was taken to the Underworld? I need help. Would Thoth help me search, do you think? Or, perhaps I can ask a Goddess that I know...

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I'll do what I can along more, uh... pedestrian means of searching for people," Tim offers up, though judging by the way his mouth twitches against the urge to frown, he doesn't have a lot of faith in that turning anything up. He shakes his head.

    And then he lifts a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "If there's anything left, it was never on the books. But I'll see what I can find." Then he looks up, to both Jon and Zatanna. "You're right, though, we need to get a better sense of what's left in that room." Aside for a lot of his and Zee's blood. "Maybe there's something there."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks at Zatanna, stammers, "I-I mean... I know the story /generally/, yes. As for specifics, ahh... well. Whatever I can find to help you, I am glad to provide the information." Oh good lord, Persephone and Demeter are /real/. It keeps hitting him, at the oddest times, what a /bizzare/ turn his life has taken, these last few weeks.

    Then Jon takes a long, deep breath. Uncurls himself all the ways. Sits up. Then he says, in a shaky voice, "I... will look into this book. The Iron-Bound Book of Skelos. Its... history, its movements. This place in China Cobb says they found it." He pauses, then says, softly, "I already have the knowledge of it. The worst that happens is that I get /more/."

    His expression is that of a man staring down the barrel of a gun: terrified, but also firmly determined.

    "And... I'll come look around the room, just in case I can get any more information off of anything in there. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
    "What I do know is that she is has buried herself deeply. Very deeply. Out of the reach of even someone like me." That should scare both Tim and Jon. Zatanna seldom refers to just how much power she possesses, she has learned that occult powers listen and hubris is not well regarded.

    Regarding Tim gravely, she nods her head as if to say: Yes, Tim, the Gods exist.

    Jon's terror is justified but she won't baby him. Disciples of Thoth are not picked from the ranks of the weak and perhaps his fright will make him tread more carefully around magic artifacts.

    She frowns at him for his last quip.

    "Let me go with you. Not that I stopped you from touching what you shouldn't have the last time we were there." She lightens the potential smart of her criticism. "Intelligent. China is a good place to look since it was last there."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Despite how all of this is very much going over Tim's head, he's comfortable enough in trusting Zatanna's skill and knowledge in the subject to mostly just take things at face value. Even the talk of Gods doesn't really faze him, though he's had his fair share of exposure to their existence through some of his teammates in the Outsiders.

    Not that Jon knows of those connections. Well, he knows about Tim and Phoebe's friendship, without any of the hows or whys.

    He tucks his hand against his chin, momentarily dragged away by his thoughts. Not so much that he's tuned out of the conversation, but Tim is good at splitting his attention. "Right," he says, after. "Those artifacts need appraisal. If we can get them sent back to where they belong, that would be for the best." But then Tim's nose wrinkles. "So long as they're not, uh, also evil."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I never said I intended to go look around /alone/, Zatanna," Jon says with a shaky laugh. "I suspect I very much need someone to keep an eye on me so I don't get into any more trouble. I should hardly be let out of the house on my own, I think." He... genuinely seems to believe that. The whole book business must really be getting to him.

    He looks to Tim. "I suspect between us Zatanna and I can at least tell if they're /evil/ and need, well, containment. The business of figuring out where they go... well. That's not really my area of expertise."

    After a moment, he says, "I..." Stops. Hesitates. "I'm curious. I'm... /very/ curious, about how a young man such as yourself can fight sand scorpions and shrug off a gunshot wound and has such a... comprehensive medical kit in the trunk of his car." He chews at his lip. "But, so you know--I'm /not/ going to ask. I want to! But I won't. And I won't pry. I..." He sighs. "I understand having secrets to keep, whatever they are."

    Heck, maybe Tim's secret is just that he participates in a secret rich-people live-round paintball game, how would Jon know?

Tim Drake has posed:
    "We'll get Thoth Dad a pair of gloves," Tim quips. He doesn't actually know if that will stop Jon's whole... psychometry-based powers, if that's even how it works. But it felt like a good time to make a joke and cut some of the tension as they look down the barrel of an impending end-of-the-world scenario.

    Tim wraps a hand around the bar of one of his crutches, but he hasn't yet made to stand. Perhaps because he has to mentally prepare for the effort required, especially given how much it took for him to just sit up. He lost a non-insignificant amount of blood, after all.

    He nods at Jon as he sits there. "At the very least, we can sort out the good from the bad and put the former into storage until we figure out who they belong to."

    And then the question comes. It's not entirely unexpected--Tim is aware he's had to show his hand a fair few times for the greater good, and the Archivist is a smart cookie so him noticing isn't surprising--but he does an excellent job of looking briefly taken aback, and then momentarily puzzled.

    "You don't know who my--oh. You never actually met my boyfriend, did you?" Lonnie isn't here so he's getting thrown under the bus. And the hand-off of spare clothes had been somewhere other than Phoebe's room in the clinic, when it had happened. "He... gets into trouble sometimes. I'm just prepared."

    Whether or not that story holds any water, well, Tim's at least good at acting like it's legit. Admittedly, saying Lonnie gets into trouble is also something of an understatement, but it is based in truth.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna sighs,"The evil in that book didn't stop you last time and gloves won't work. Not with something that strong, dear Tim."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon... /looks/ at Tim. Just /looks/ at him.

    Then, "Did I mention I'm an empath?" He quirks a brow. "Don't bother trying to lie, Tim. Keep your secrets; it's fine."

    He smiles. "My point was not to pry. My point was to say--whatever we find in this business, /whatever/ your father did? No one else will know, not from me. We don't know each other all that well yet, but I've evidently been catapulted into helping you figure out some family secrets, and... well. That's hardly anyone else's business, is it?"

    Then he... nods to Zatanna. Sighs. He needs a keeper, he said that!

Tim Drake has posed:
    All Tim has to say to that is a quick, "That's cheating," with a moue of disapproval flashed Jon's way. And then, finally, Tim brings his crutches into place and levers himself up onto his feet.

    Well, foot.

    Look, point being, he's upright now. "I appreciate that," he says, and then he shrugs his shoulders at Zee. Hey, all he can really do is spitball ideas and wait for them to be shot down. So there's certainly no hard feelings in Zatanna doing just that about the suggestion of gloves. "Though up until this week I didn't think the Drakes had any long-held family secrets to keep."

    He sighs, and adjusts how the crutches sit underneath his arms. "Either way, thank you--both of you--for coming to assist. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need to recover. Alfred's fixing dinner right now, I think. But if you'd like to head home, I can have a car called for you."

    Then Tim smiles. "And Alfred will send you off with a to-go container, I'm sure."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon hesitates, then says, with genuine appreciation, "I... would not mind staying for dinner. Where I have to go is..." He hesitates. Shrugs.

    "I don't really have anywhere to be, just now. Ahh, thank your... thank Mister Wayne for his hospitality, please?"

    Then, "I was glad to help. However much... well. Well! Well, now we have a chance to stop her, right?" Look on the bright side, that's Thoth Dad. Really.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Good choice," Tim says, expression brightening in the way only someone who has learned to embrace the joys of good food would. He's a changed man, really.

    Though he can still only use a rice cooker and make overnight oats. That much remains the same.

    And then click, click, click goes his crutches as Tim exits stage left to prepare for dinner. "Oh, we'll stop her," is the last thing he says before he's gone, called out over one shoulder. Because they have to stop her. They don't have a choice. So they will.

    Sometimes leaning into the conviction of youth is useful. Tim has no illusions about his own immortality, but what he does have is faith in his own abilities, and trust in his allies. Which Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, AKA Thoth Dad is now counted among.

    Dinner is served about half an hour later, and Jon is summoned from his room via the telephone on one of the side tables. Obviously an intercom system has to be in place at Wayne Manor given how big it is. Directions are provided for an informal side room rather than the formal dining room, which is just asking too much. But there's a table and chairs, and Tim sat in one with a laptop in front of him, eyes narrowed as he types. His leg is propped up, too.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's just as glad not to be in the formal dining room because... he's not /dressed/ for it, for one thing. He's still in that damn brown cardigan that managed to somehow not get blood on it, given everything. He spent the half hour finally managing to put some thoughts on microtape, and looks distinctly better for it as he comes into the dining room.

    "Well," he comments, "I managed to find my way down here without getting lost. Perhaps it's the lack of a tour guide."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's still in the same shorts and t-shirt--which is actually one of his own, not Lonnie's, thank you (but Tim is still not punk rock, sadly)--at the table, so there's nothing formal at all to be found at this dinner. His eyes flick up at movement in his peripheral, and he reaches up to remove one of the earbuds in his ear. "It's a legit concern. I don't even know half of the rooms in this place," he says, and there's a quiet note of discomfort there in his voice, in the way he says 'this place'.

    Like it's not really his home. Was it ever? He was nearly 18 when he was adopted by Bruce Wayne, after all.

    His fingers continue to tap at the keyboard, and most of the time he's not even looking at it. "We, ah, Alfred didn't know if you had any dietary restrictions, I'm not sure what he's making," Tim's shoulders hunch upwards faintly. "If there's an issue, just--we'll figure it out."

    Surely a professional like Alfred Pennyworth knows how to deal with these sorts of things. Tim? Not so much.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "It's fine," Jon says. "No dietary restrictions. I'll be grateful for a meal that isn't pub food or something that took me eight hours to make."

    He goes to sit down, commenting, "My gran used to take me to National Trust buildings for the holidays... and inevitably I'd wind up wandering off to try to poke into rooms I shouldn't and get lost." A pause. "Well... /I/ knew where I was but /she/ didn't, so according to her I was 'lost'." He shakes his head. "One would think she'd have stopped taking me, but she liked the old drafty castles herself too much to give it up, I suppose."

    Small talk! Sort of.

Tim Drake has posed:
    A pitcher of water and glasses sits on the table along with the other usual suspects, ready for when the meal is inevitably served. And a cup of coffee, steaming at Tim's elbow. His typing pauses so that he can lift the cup and take a sip, and that's about when a tutting noise from the doorway sounds.

    It's Alfred, of course. And Tim responds by setting his cup down and, lips pressed together into a thin line, snapping his laptop closed so he can move it aside.

    "Very good, Master Timothy," comes the butler's sass, masquerading as approval. Tim is suitably cowed as Alfred steps in, and then he nods to Jonathan with a polite "Mister Sims," just before he sets a plate down in front of each of them. "Cavatelli with roasted butternut squash."

    The food is laid out like it's right out of a michelin star restaurant, the homemade noodles and roasted squash pieces resting in a creamy sauce, garnished with fried sage leaves and a drizzle of vincotto. Bougie, in a word. Except it's in a portion size that would actually satisfy a human being. Alfred departs, of course after asking if either of them need anything, and Tim answers with a quick shake of his head and a genuine "Thank you," even if he's still clearly aware he's in the dog house.

    "I did the same thing on one of my school field trips to the museum in town. I didn't approve of the job my teacher was doing with the tour, so I bought one of the guided tour headsets and wandered off on my own." Tim picks up his fork and smiles faintly, obviously at the memory. But also, you know, at all these delicious carbs sitting in front of him. "I didn't realize until a GCPD officer tapped me on the shoulder that they'd called in an entire search party for me."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods politely and murmurs, "No, thank you," to the question. He eyes the food for a moment, with... appreciation? Appreciation. Maybe it's bougie but Jon himself is admittedly bougie. He's an early-30's New Yorker who makes enough money to have both and office and two-bedroom in Queens, he's bougie.

    Jon laughs as he pours himself some water and then picks up a fork. "They never really called search parties for me. National Trust buildings--I don't know if you've ever been to England? They're mostly staffed by volunteers, at least the places people are allowed to visit. It's not like it's got the Queen's guards standing about. So imagine several very irritated old ladies, all of whom--including my gran--have an interest in old buildings, trying to find this annoying child who's decided to wander off and find out what's inside the parapets." A pause. "...Admittedly I'd have been less frightened of the GCPD. Those women can be /terrifying/."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Subtly, Tim's face twitches into a grimace as he adjusts the way his leg is propped up on another one of the chairs. He's fine, he's fine. "I've been once or twice," he answers, though his intercontinental trips do end up being related more to Bat activities than sight-seeing. He sits up a little straighter as he assesses the food in front of himself for a moment, and then...

    Well, he's Gen Z. He pulls out his phone and spends a moment or two angling it this way and that until he gets a good picture. "Sorry," he says, belatedly. "Phoebe likes to know that I'm actually eating real food and not subsisting solely on caffeine." The smile he flashes across the table is fairly self-deprecating.

    The phone does, at least, immediately get tucked away after, and Tim too picks up his fork and begins to eat. "So what was inside the parapets?" he asks as he spears a few pieces of pasta and squash on his fork.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon chuckles. "We mustn't worry Phoebe too much, no. She's got enough on her plate, just now." A pause, and he frowns, and then wipes it away.

    "Oh, they were usually empty. Sometimes they were being used for a storage closet or some such. A couple of times I found bits of old exhibits people had put away." He smirks. "The interesting buildings were the ones people were still living in. I found a couple of private journals, stumbled on a /very/ scandalous rendezvous once. Nothing terribly scarring, but there was a whole buisness with a member of the House of Lords and his sister-in-law. Shocking." He says it drolly.

    "That... was about the time gran stopped taking me to places anyone still lived in and stuck to the museums," he adds with a smirk. And then, thoughtfully, "...I suppose I've always been, ahh... overly curious. But I know better than to go poking about in the private corners of people's lives now. At least without signing off on HIPAA paperwork and getting paid for it." He takes a bite of the pasta and pauses a moment to appreciate... /real food/.

    Look, he's been having a rough week or two, okay? The people he's around live off Pop-Tarts.

Tim Drake has posed:
    That pause, the moment of hesitance after Phoebe's name comes up, Tim catches it. And then he opens his mouth like he means to say something, but after a moment he just puts another bite of delicious, carby pasta in there instead.

    He chews for a long time, literally and figuratively. "If anything is universal to the human experience, it's scandals and the general public's appetite for them." Though aside for that whole thing with Tim maybe dating a member of Wakanan royalty some time ago (or cheating on his long-term model girlfriend, so said the gossip blogs), he himself is rarely a source of scandal. Mostly he's too boring.

    "So you've been practicising state-side?" he asks, after the mention of HIPAA. "In emergency medicine?" The questions are genuine, as Tim has worked very hard to respect Phoebe's request for no snooping into her magical allies. But Jon is now Tim's ally, at least in his head... is that a loophole? Something calculating flickers across Tim's face as he considers that, before it disappears.

    Then he pauses, looking down at his plate. "Actually," Tim begins, with no small measure of awkward hesitance. "I don't think I ever thanked you, for seeing to Zee when she was injured."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon blinks at Tim. "Emer--oh, no, no, I'm a psychiatrist. I actually went to Columbia for grad school and did my post-graduate work in Gotham and Metropolis; I've been working on getting US citizenship. I specialize in trauma-related disorders, and /specifically/ my practice caters to, ahh..." A pause. How to say it... delicately.

    Finally, "I tend to treat superheroes and the people who deal with the... fallout of their lives. One of my first patients was one such, and word gets around, evidently, that someone will be both discreet and believe whatever seemingly ludicrous thing you've experienced."

    He takes another bite of pasta before adding, "You're quite welcome. Zatanna... I haven't known her long, but I consider her a friend. Fate, or possibly the gods, brought us together. I can hardly let my new friend die now can I?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's fork comes to a halt mid-air, loaded with pasta. "Oh," he says, and again his eyes narrow in that considering way of his. It's a calculating look for sure, but without any nefarious intent. It's just that he's the type whose gears start to turn rapidly as he takes in new information.

    He's progressed to chewing when Jon goes further into detail on his specialty, which causes Tim's jaw to stop working abruptly. He blinks once, and then again, before he swallows. "That's... a thing?" He sounds very much surprised to hear this. His fork actually gets set down at this news. "I didn't realize that--well, I know there are a lot of medical professionals who focus on dealing with trauma after being victimized by a costumed criminal." Because it's Gotham, and there are no doubt dozens, perhaps hundreds, of licensed therapists and counselors who treat supervillain-related PTSD.

    That he sits there just processing this knowledge is probably being too obvious, so he spurs himself into movement, taking a steadying sip of coffee. "I'm lucky to know her," is all he says regarding Zatanna, though the undercurrent of emotion in his voice speaks volumes. "You're very quick on your feet with the first aid, though, so thank you for that."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods. "My husband was an EMT," he says, and Tim... well, Tim can surely see the way the man's eyes flicker to the side. He's bad at lying, and that was a lie. "He drilled it into me, since I was home with our daughter so much. Emergency response of... all sorts." A pause. There's something heavy and painful, there, but he moves on.

    "It is, indeed, a thing." Jon sighs. "First responders--and I include superheroes in that, costumed or not--experience a /great/ deal of trauma. PTSD is the least of their concerns, and all too often the strain of whatever powers someone might have can be..."

    He stops, and says, thoughtfully, "...Imagine how many people wound up labelled 'crazy' when they were actually being spoken to by gods, or demons, or manifesting metagene or magic powers? Imagine how many people were... /badly/ served by my profession? So I offer that, too. I make no judgement on the... 'appropriate' baseline of mental health. Some people, in order to do their work, must be a little... well, what we would call 'crazy.' I will not assume that someone is hallucinating based merely on what they tell me happened. It's... reassuring, evidently."

    He's frowning down at his plate. "I wonder, these days, every time I see someone in costume running off to save the day. How are they coping? Do they have emotional support? Does it even occur to them, that they /need/ it?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's no empath, he just reads people really, startlingly well. And he definitely didn't miss that look, as big a tell as possible for a lie. But Jon respected his secrets, and despite his nature warring against him, Tim decides to offer the man the same consideration. So he doesn't call him out.

    Though he does raise an eyebrow. He doesn't call Jon out *verbally*. Which is technically more than Jon did for him! But Tim can express a lot of dry wit and sarcasm without saying a word. He choses to keep eating, though, because that's a good distraction. Both from his urge to pick and pry and dig for secrets, and also from broadcasting anything himself. "Even before modern psychiatry came into being, I mean... think of the Salem Witch Trials, or any number of other examples of people being accused of things like demonic possession across history." He pauses. "Well, sure, maybe there were a lot of actual demons involved, knowing what I know now. Still. The point stands."

    And despite how delicious Alfred's cooking is--really, this dish is a treat, perfect for the fall season and also good enough that it hardly matters that it's vegetarian--Tim is now poking at his food with his fork, eyes downcast. The last few sentences of Jon's explanation strike home particularly sharp, and Tim's mouth drops open before rapidly snapping shut again, expression closing off. "Yeah, I wonder," he mutters.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon doesn't seem to notice Tim's expression, not least because he's staring down at his own food. "I worry about..." He hesitates. Does Tim know what Phoebe does? About running around using her powers to fight things?

    After a moment, slowly, "I worry about the children I know, the young people, who go about fighting the darkness. What does it say about a society, that we allow our /children/ to protect us? Adults should be the ones protecting children, not... not letting them dress up in costumes and run about risking their lives before their bones have even finished growing." He stabs at a piece of pasta in irritation.

    Then, after a moment, he says, "Ahh... my apologies. It's... just something that's been coming up lately." He glances up with a vague smile. "I suppose some part of that is probably why Phoebe dubbed me 'Thoth Dad.' I think I expressed the same sentiments to her."

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's lucky, that Jonathan's attention is focused downwards. Because that gives Tim a moment to quiet the screaming between his ears and arrange his facial features into something that's not quite so obviously damaged. He swallows once, and then again, before he leans forward to pour himself a glass of water.

    Which he proceeds to down in one long, long gulp.

    He doesn't, can't, actually comment on what Jon's just said. So he goes for the easier topic, instead. "She uses code names. I've been trying to respect her privacy, even though I know Trenchcoat-slash-Magic-Dad is obviously a reference to John Constantine." One of his shoulders shrugs, loosely.

    There's a lot of forced relaxation going on right now. Even when there should be tension, given his injury, Tim is just... putting his all into looking unaffected. He keeps eating, even while his stomach roils.

    "So there's also Cabbie Dad and Thoth Dad. It made sense at the time. Then everything went to hell, predictably, because," he waves his fork around in the air. "Gotham!"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon narrows his eyes at Tim, just for a moment. Expression or no, he's an /empath/, and he can't help but notice the... tension. The anxiety. Is it just that he's worried for Phoebe? That would mean he knows about Phoebe.

    There's another option, but damn it, Jon said he wouldn't /pry/. Even though he wants to, and not just out of curiosity now. But he said he wouldn't. So there's a moment of... worry, and guilt, and he bites his lip.

    "I appreciate the trust it shows," he says after a moment. "'Magic Dad' is an old friend of mine, even if..." He stops. Shakes his head.

    Then, he sighs. "Gotham indeed." His voice is heavy. "Though I expect things might have gone to hell regardless--they'd been going that way for a little while already. Odd way to meet, though." He chuckles. "When I started treating superheroes, I did not expect I would one day /become/ one, I swear."

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's a real storm of emotions lurking under the calm surface that Tim is outwardly projecting. And he knows that Jon's an empath, but here, in the comfort of a place Tim once called home, it's hard for him to raise up those walls. The pain of his gunshot wound certainly doesn't help, either.

    He's not cleared his plate, but he sets his fork down with some finality, and leans back instead with his coffee cup. "It's not easy, for me," Tim says. "Phoebe is... I've known her for a long time, and I'm the kind of person who worries. About everything. She's my best friend." He isn't actually drinking, it's just a useful prop to keep his fingers from fidgeting, like they want to.

    That last bit Jon says makes Tim snort out a bit of laughter that's almost actually mirthful. "Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein," he recites, accent indistinguishable from a native German speaker. "Feels appropriate most of the time in this city, but especially now, don't you think? I wasn't expecting to ever get mixed up into something like..."

    Like the mystical necromantic apocalypse looming over their heads? Yeah. That. "Though I guess it was inevitable. I mean, I had my birthday parties in the greenhouse that my dad built over that room." Tim shakes his head after that, mutely.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon snorts. "Nietzsche? Really? And here I thought you were a young man of sensibility." He's teasing; there's a flicker in his eyes. He knows the quote, and it's worrying, given the darkness lurking in his own head.

    "I... have begun to wonder, myself. I've had perfect recall since I was eight years old. I was drawn both to vocal training and a professional in which I sit and listen to people's stories and offer advice." He sighs. "I wonder, now, if Thoth chose me to be Archivist long before my cousin ever made that deal with that damn demon." Whatever secrets he's keeping for others, he's free enough with his own.

    After a moment, "I... don't know if you'd heard, but Phoebe's doing better. We got her antidote, we're working on restoring her powers. She's going to be alright."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Oh come on, Nietzsche is basically the philosophical mascot of Gotham!" Tim says, with a sweeping gesture. "Just look at the community of vigilantes and villains--if that's not an example of his concept of exceptional people asserting their own inner law rather than following the morality of the masses then I don't know what--."

    Abruptly, his mouth snaps closed. Tim looks embarrassed in a vaguely amused way, and he shrinks in on himself. "Sorry. Lonnie and I, we do a lot of philosophical... discourse. Usually we get worked up about it." He slumps down in his chair and hides his abashed expression behind his cup, which he sips from. "Well, if it's a hereditary thing, maybe you're just predisposed to the type of intellect that is best-suited for the, uh, job?" The Archivist doesn't seem like it's a job to Tim.

    And now he's out of coffee, so no more hiding. He sets the empty cup down. "It's okay. We've been texting since she left the clinic." Then he bites the inside of his cheek. "I... haven't told her about being injured. She's going to--it'll upset her, especially since her healing powers are on the fritz right now. Please don't tell her."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon's expression was actually... interested. Bright, and smiling. And then Tim mentions Phoebe, and--

    "I won't," he says. "Even if they /weren't/ on the fritz, her father is being very, ahh... /protective/ about her healing people. Not to mention it evidently might bring down notice upon her." He sighs.

    Then he says, "Lonnie seems like someone I'd like to meet. When I was your age--"

    He has to stop. Take a long drink of water. Oh, that makes him feel /old/.

    Then he continues, "...When I was in uni, I spent /many/ a long night with my friends talking philosophy and politics and religion and all manner of esoteric subjects." He sighs. "Admittedly, university-age Jon would be /dreadfully/ disappointed his older self cut his hair and took out the piercings and has a two-bedroom flat in /Queens/ of all places." He shakes his head, looking amused.

    "At any rate, you do have a point! Heroes and villains both do that, here in Gotham. Perhaps that's part of why I tried to avoid the place for so long. I don't know that I'd trust myself to assert my own inner law, and I wouldn't want to get caught up in someone else's version."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim smiles, in a way that is both fond and also a little sad. "She thinks it's her responsibility to heal me any time I get a scrape, and her not being able to--she'll feel responsible." He shakes his head. "Which obviously she *isn't*, and it's not like I was somehow immune to injury before I met her! But that's just the kind of person she is, so I just send her care packages and try to convince her to take care of herself more."

    There have been more than a handful of deliveries to the Laughing Magician charged to one of Tim's accounts, after all. Despite having never stepped into the bar himself.

    "I'm sure you'll end up meeting him," Tim says, and then his expression falls. "...I should probably tell *him* that I'm injured." He covers his face with both hands with a heavy exhale so that he can muffle a wordless noise of frustration. But then he just scrubs the heels of his palms against his eyes and he's recovered, though he does blink several times after.

    Briefly, Tim looks across the table at Jon, as if he's trying to imagine Thoth Dad as someone with long hair and piercings. "So that's why you looked so comfortable in Lonnie's clothes," he surmises.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "It was not unlike clothing I wore myself, once upon a time," Jon agrees. "But image does matter, particularly for an international student, so..." He shrugs.

    Then, softly, "Have you told him about any of this? I... well, I suppose I can't imagine /not/ telling my..." He stops, and swallows, and goes on, "Well, that's up to you, of course."

    He's nearly finished with the food, having taken his time to linger. He doesn't entirely want to go back, but there /are/ things to take care of in Hell's Kitchen.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's a brief moment where Tim just looks pleased to have his suspicions confirmed. It wasn't much of a mystery, but it's something, and another piece added to the puzzle of Jonathan Sims in his mental profile of the man.

    There are other, less exciting things that he's gathered from this conversation too. He doesn't follow up on Jon's mention of what Tim suspects is a deceased spouse. It's certainly not something he'd bring up like that. "About what I found? No." Now that he has nothing to occupy his hands, they start to fidget, plucking at the bandages on his leg. "He was the one who convinced me to have the remains of the house bulldozed." Tim's lips purse, thoughtfully. "Well, actually he wanted me to burn the place down, but that felt a little extreme."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "It may have been best," Jon says softly. "Fire is often a cleansing agent. Fire or flood." He tilts his head. "Are you close enough, to tell him?"

    After a moment, then, "You should get one of those, ahh, fidget toys. I have one myself, in the flat, I just haven't... it helps, with the need to stim. Fidget. Whatever the cause."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim's nose wrinkles. "The amount of pollutants that would release into the atmosphere--I mean, it's not like there was asbestos in the walls any more or anything, but--there'd already been a fire, and I just thought I'd try to clean it up. Maybe donate the land, or... something." He tucks his cheek against his palm, eyes distant. "We've only been dating for a month and a half, but."

    And then he hesitates, because how do you explain that your relationship started by outwitting your boyfriend's villainous schemes and throwing him in juvie without actually giving that away. "We weren't friends, when we were teens. But eventually we settled our differences and became friends. So."

    When Jon points out his fidgeting, Tim's fingers stop, immediately. "It's fine. It's nothing, really," he says with a shake of his head.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon quirks a brow at that last, but says, "That's... my husband and I, we... didn't get along when we met. At all. I thought he was a lazy slob, and he... I have it on very good authority he used to call me 'that pompous know-it-all with the fake posh accent.'" He puts a hand to his throat, briefly, smiling with a combination of nostalgia and pain.

    "Obviously we both learned differently, but once we were together it was... we went through a lot, and came through it all out the other side. We still bicker--bickered, but a healthy relationship includes conflict. The important thing is knowing how to navigate that."

    Yes, the husband's gone, one way or another. And he has no idea the kind of 'conflict' Tim and Lonnie have, of course.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I went back and forth between the extremes of 'well-meaning, but troubled' and 'an absolute narcissistic lunatic' but, you know, we were young, and uh, puberty is..." Tim doesn't really know how to explain further, so he just shrugs. "He got better?" And Tim got wildly less uptight. Which, well, he's still uptight. But it's a marked difference anyway.

    For now, Tim's hands remain held together against his uninjured thigh, like he's trying not to get caught fidgeting again. "We're working on it, still, but it's a lot different," less violent (mostly), "Than how we used to treat each other. I just, uh." He looks down, at his lap. "Eventually I have to... tell everybody."

    Which is a whole other can of worms. Not just the 'hi, I'm not straight!' conversation, but the 'my boyfriend is a semi-reformed villain' bit. Might be a hard pill to swallow, for some.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon frowns slowly. "Coming out... is... it can be hard." Well, of course he's going to make the wrong assumption! "And... it's a continual process rather than a single event. But people are... much more understanding now, than they used to be."

    After a moment, he adds, "If... you need an ear... well. I'm here." He smiles. "I find myself offering that a lot, these days."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim takes in a deep breath, like a precursor to some more profound statement... but all he does afterward is sigh, quietly. "Yeah." His fingers dig into the backs of his knuckles as his hands clasp more tightly together. "I know. It's a me-issue, not so much an anyone-else issue."

    And then he has that sharp, calculating look to his eyes again as he stares at Jon. "Don't let people take advantage of you for that. I mean, you said it yourself--the whole superhero thing is traumatic, to an unbelievable degree, right? And you're a superhero now. So don't let people use you for both things without letting you take care of yourself."

    It's not the first time he's said something like that, but it is admittedly the first time he's given that advice to someone not on his team. And Tim seems to realize it a moment too late. "Sorry. For assuming. But I generally believe I'm a decent judge of character, and you seem like a good person. So. Uh. Anyway." Boy does Tim wish he still had coffee to drink. Mostly as something to do to cover up the awkwardness. Also slightly for the caffeine because he is addicted.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "No, no, I..." Jon stops. Hesitates. "I have been known to..."

    Slowly, "There is a reason that most of my relationships with people are professional. When there are strict rules, then it's... easier for me to say 'no, I cannot do this for you.' To set a boundary. To insist on reciprocation, even if it's merely monetary. I've... been taken advantage of, in the past." He sighs. "It colors my current relationships. I am... /trying/ to do better." He hesitates, fiddling with his fork for a moment.

    It's clear, to someone as calculating and observant as Tim, that he's /not/ taking care of himself, or getting the help he needs. And he knows it, on some level, but he's also probably the sort of guy that's telling himself that it's fine, he's fine, he'd be asking too much to ask for help. Even now, he's /very/ clearly pushing away whatever the book did to him, to pretend that everything is fine, to offer advice to the younger man. How recent of a widower is he, to still be catching himself on speaking of his husband in the present tense? How new is he to the superhero business, on top of that? And here he is worrying about Zatanna and offering Tim advice and ignoring whatever else is going on.

    He looks up after a moment, smiles. "You needn't worry yourself too much. I'll figure things out." By repressing it all, maybe.

Tim Drake has posed:
    It's already been said that Tim isn't an empath. Just observant. There are tells that he's picking up on, and it's made almost exponentially easier by the fact that Tim is seeing a lot of himself reflected in Jon. A great many of the bad coping behaviors that have been directly pointed out to him in the past. "Are there other people who do what you do?" he asks, with a tilt of his head. "In the mental health field, I mean."

    There's something of an implication in his voice, as if to say, if there are, are you taking advantage of the fact? Tim is pretty sure that question would get a flat-out no, though, and despite his realization of their shared life experiences, they have only recently met. It's not something Tim feels like he can really press Thoth Dad about.

    But what he can do is text Phoebe about it. Mental note made. And maybe include some things for Jon in those care packages that he sends to the Laughing Magician.

    "It's not a problem unique to Gotham, but I've seen a lot of people get chewed up and spit out by the things that happen here. And I know there's nothing I can say that will convince you, because it's all been said to me before and it never worked. But I have crazy intense insomnia so if you ever need to talk, you can text and I'll probably be awake." It has *nothing* to do with his caffeine intake, no sir, not at all.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "I had a therapist," Jon said. "I..." He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I think I'm going to have to find another one. I don't know. Things have been... hectic. I'll figure it out."

    Mmm-hmm. Sure he will. Eventually.

    Then he smiles. "By an /amazing/ coincidence I, too, have fairly bad insomnia of late. So... I will return the offer. I'm used to people calling me at all hours to talk about things." There's a sad note in his voice. Nostalgic.

    Then, "Perhaps we can help each other, in that regard. It would be nice to... help. It's been hard to do that, of late. The superhero business takes, ahh... getting used to."

Tim Drake has posed:
    And while Alfred may be able to give an entire lecture in a single look, Tim can also manage a pointed comment with the lift of an eyebrow. When Jon says he HAD a therapist.

    The emphasis is Tim's.

    "I know you have a lot going on, with Phoebe and her Magic-Dad. But I'll keep you up-to-date about the whole, uh, situation." He flaps his hand in the direction of his family estate, which is an adjacent plot of land, though of course Tim realizes the gesture means little to Jon. "I don't know how much help I can be for any of the stuff you've been dealing with up in New York, but I can try. If there's a need for mundane skills, I'm your boring, regular human person for that."

    And that is when someone clears their throat from the doorway. It's Alfred. And it's also time for Tim to take his meds.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods, and stands, and reaches over the table to offer his hand to Tim. "I'll be around, don't worry. This is... well. It's a priority, and it's something I can't really pass off to anyone else." He hesitates, expression tightening for a moment. He... really can't. /Nobody/ should have the knowledge that's in that book.

    Then, hand potentially shaken, he turns to Alfred. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth, for the meal, and the hospitality. I'll leave you to your patient."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Hand definitely shaken. Tim's expression is briefly serious, exchanging a nod with Jon as he looks up at him, and then he pulls back with a sigh. "There's a car waiting for you outside," he says, and how long exactly has it been waiting? Who knows. The Waynes can afford to pay someone to twiddle their thumbs, no doubt. "Keep in touch," Tim adds.

    And assuredly there is indeed a very nice hired car at the double front doors of Wayne Manor, ready to take Jon back to NYC.

    First, though, Alfred stops him. The butler has a large paper bag in his hands, and it is quite the heavy thing as he passes it over to Jon. "For Ms. Beacon. Please wish her a speedy recovery for me." With that, Alfred passes by Jon to, indeed, tend to his patient.

    Or rather, dole out that punishment that Tim has been promised for his terrible behavior. It's not that Alfred is upset, no, it's just that he's *disappointed*.