9847/POG: Catch Up Time

POG: Catch Up Time
Date of Scene:	27 January 2022
Location:	Grand Central Station, North Concourse
Synopsis:	Phoebe and Tim catch up a hot minute in abandoned Starbucks on the NOrth Concourse. And there is a nap
Cast of Characters:	Phoebe Beacon, Tim Drake
Tinyplot:	Path of Glory

---

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    I am unborn - I?m out-growing god so I stay small -- A believer who?s unfaithful
The ground leaves my feet and pain sets me free of my secrets and gravity can?t hold me
I?m chasing light For signs of life --

    The strange, nu-wavish punk of some weird band fill the echoing concourse, from the brilliantly lit -- but perennially cracked -- cellphone of one Phoebe Beacon. She's brewed coffee. There's snacks in the form of some bargain-chain crackers with government-issue peanutbutter and 'cheese'.

    Phoebe is wearing her blue acetate glasses, meaning she's been at the board for probably 'Some Time'. The weirdest thing though is that Phoebe is wearing shorts. Like, short shorts. And a tank top. Stuff she doesn't wear in places where she's comfortable. Her hair is braided again and pulled back, held in place with bobbi pins.

    There are two caraffes of coffee. One is marked "PHOEBE' and the other is marked 'TIM' and has a heart and what appears to be a blue bumble bee with a smiley face.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tucked away like this is the only real opportunity Tim gets to shed his Red Robin costume, aside for his infrequent trips back to Gotham. And then he's usually on his feet, helping out with the Wayne Foundation team at the refugee sites. So while Phoebe might be dressed more casually than Tim's really ever seen her--even including the times he's hung out with her while she was in her Care Bear PJs--he's also dressed more casually than anyone in Grand Central Station, barring Phoebe and maybe Jon, have seen him.

    Jeans and a hoodie, his usual. Still wearing a domino mask, though. It's the one thing he can't compromise on.

    He's slumped at the table, his whole body curled around the table he's tapping away at with a stylus. The music and the caffeine help to keep him going but more than anything it's Phoebe's familiar presence that drives Tim onward. If she can keep pushing through, so can he.

    "Wish I could call a drone supply run for chips," he says, though he's still eating the snacks Phoebe's managed to scrounge up.

    Honestly it's impressive that she's managed to find anything at all.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe is surprisingly resourceful. Also it helps when you did the ordering for a bar and know where the supply houses are.

    "I would highly contemplate murder for Ben & Jerry's." Phoebe answers back in hyperbole to Tim, and she gives a small smile, and stretches her arms. The burnt-in magical circle on her left shoulder with its box of Egyptian script is painfully obvious as she leaves the board, taking a step back, and then looking at her notes.

    "I'll have to test the transferrance of this array at some point, but I don't think I have the right... Hebrew is weird to work in." she grumps, lowering her notepad and taking off her glasses, and she goes to join Tim at the table, and she sort of... flops.

    "This suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Who knows what Tim's doing on that tablet. Things flash across the screen: maps of Manhattan, detailed background checks, reports on angelic movements. It's hard to tell if he's absorbing any of the information. "I can't believe we're stuck in New York and we can't even have any pizza," he groans, just before he sits up, letting the back of the chair dig into his shoulder-blades as he streches in sympathetic response to Phoebe doing so herself.

    "Hebrew's not one I ever managed to pick up. My mom spent a few months hounding me to learn it because she wanted me to have a bar mitzvah but by the time my birthday had rolled around she forgot." The end of Tim's stylus taps against his chin, distractedly.

    Then he reaches for his coffee. Which is empty. The frown lines on his forehead deepen as he refills it from the carafe, which is also starting to be closer to empty than full.

    He takes a sip, and then blows out a breath as he echoes Phoebe with his own "This suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks." The Gen Z equivalent of wolves howling at the moon.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "I know a bit of Yiddish on account of my dad really liking Robin Williams movies, but no proper Hebrew, other than the little bits and pieces I've lifted from Lydia. Luckily -- cheatsheat." she states, turning over her notepad. It's Hebrew to English for Mages. It's still complicated.

    "Also, had no idea you were Jewish. Not too late to be Mitzvah'd. I'd go." she gives a small smile over to Tim, largely joking before she curls one arm under her arm. "I feel so stupid naked just walking around like this. Even armor feels hot." she mutters.

Tim Drake has posed:
    "I'm not," Tim replies. "Not really. My mom was raised Orthodox and cut her family out of her life when she moved away, so her relationship @with her faith was always... kind of in flux. She had her moments but it never really stuck, and I wasn't raised with it." He tucks his feet up on the chair with him, tablet now balanced in what would be a precarious position for just about anyone else, but it's old hat for Tim to keep working like that.

    He tucks his stylus between his teeth so he can type out something rapid-fire, somehow managing to do so using the on-screen keyboard without having to constantly correct typos. Or who knows, maybe he's just beyond caring about typos at this point.

    Nah. There's no way.

    He looks over at Phoebe, stylus back in hand now. Specifically, being twirled in his fingers. "I wasn't going to ask, but... there a specific reason why you're dressed like we're in the middle of a heat wave?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Aah. I'd have no idea what that was like. I was raised Catholic. Went to Sunday School, confirmation, all that jazz. Stopped going to confession regularly when I was fourteen, on account that every time I fell off a building it was like 'oh God, don't let me die falling into a dumpster!'" Phoebe gives a small smile, and she watches Tim work quietly as she gives her brain a break.

    Like Tim, she's very concerned with her typos -- although turning the angels into miniature versions of themselves WOULD be amusing...

    And then she's brought back from her exhausted brain wandering away.

    She looks down at her clothing... and then scratches at her left shoulder, above the pins.

    "... side-effect. I don't feel the cold anymore."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Tim tosses back a few crackers topped with only the finest processed cheese-adjacent product as he listens to Phoebe. He sockets his next bite into his cheek so that he can make a vaguely sympathetic noise when she brings up dumpsters, because just about every vigilante in Gotham is bound to have a similar story about ending up in one after going over the edge of a rooftop.

    "From the angel stuff, huh," he says after a bit. And then he nods. For what limited understanding he has of it all, that makes... some kind of sense. He swirls the remnants of his coffee around in his cup, looking down at it regretfully. Where did it all go?

    Of course, Tim's probably 95% caffeine at this point.

    "Want me to pull out one of the emergency ice packs?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "From absorbing the angel stuff, yeah." Phoebe replies in admission, and she turns over her arm and shows the geometric circle burned into her skin.

    "... so. Uh. Yeah. I absorbed a Power. Since I did the ritual to kinda bind it to myself to stabilize and open a connection to the light..." she trails off a moment, and shrruuugs her shoulders a moment.

    "... and nah. I can handle it. It's just uncomfortable. Like having eight agonizing pins in my skin wasn't enough?" she asks of no-one, and then she puts her head down a moment, and gives a huff of breath, and she slides her coffee over to Tim.

    "Speaking of... uh. I wanted to broach the idea before I finalized anything with Jon."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Sluuuurp. If Tim has anything to say about Phoebe's experimentation with angelic energy absorption, he doesn't say it. Instead he just sips his coffee in a vaguely judgmental sort of way. Only vaguely! And maybe it's just that he's tired, who knows. Hard to tell with his mask still on.

    "Could be worse," is what he says instead. "You could step on a Lego."

    When Phoebe mentions some new idea, though, Tim goes still. Slowly, he lowers his cup, eventually all the way down to the table top. Then he folds his hands together, steepling his fingers. "...Go on."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe folds her fingers, and looks over to Tim.

    "So. I would not even broach the topic without acknowleging that you are someone who both Jon and I trust, and if anyone could handle the responsibility... look... I don't even know if Jon will go for it." she stammers a moment.

    "... Jon is going to die. That is negotiable. It's going to happen." she states, and she reaches back, and unpins one of her braids.

    "If he dies, the Archive goes to Agnes. She's too young for it. Getting any sort of magic powers when you're fourteen... it doesn't set you up for anything good." she states.

    "... how would feel about maybe... possibly hosting the Archive?"

Tim Drake has posed:
    Though Tim had already been aware, in vague terms, of Jon's upcoming martyrdom... it still gives him pause. He and the Archivist might not have as deep a friendship as he shares with Phoebe, but it's hard not to like someone who is basically an older, British version of yourself. So long as you're not thoroughly filled with self-hatred, which is not one of Tim's faults.

    So he blows out a slow, steady breath, and sits there with the knowledge of it for a moment. Then he nods. "It'd also put an even larger target on her back than the one already there," Tim points out.

    Which, of course, he doesn't mind pinning onto himself instead. "What would you need me to do?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... I don't know yet." Phoebe answers softly. She puts her head in her hands.

    "I'm already running on Pure Will and caffeine and working Sephirot and containing so much. On top of this all. And leading the Justice LEague Dark. And worrying about Chas and Geraldine and -- it's a lot, Tim. It's a lot for someone who a year ago wasn't... in a good place at all. Januaries suck. I'm not allowed to be active during them anymore."

Tim Drake has posed:
    All Tim does in response to that is nod. "When you do, you know where to find me." He clicks the button on the side of his tablet and then stands. "Come on, let's go grab a power nap. We've earned it. And then after, we'll pencil in hibernation for all of January next year."

    He gathers up his things and downs the rest of his coffee, because let's face it: at this point it's hardly doing anything at all. His nervous system is probably seconds away from shutting down at any moment.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "Cool, I'll set up the cots and I grabbed a couple blankets from my apartment on an excursion." Phoebe comments, and she stretches her arms out, and actually yawns.

    "... I haven't felt sleepy in a week. Maybe I need another angel. Om, nom, nom, angel wings in my coffee."

Tim Drake has posed:
    "Heresy. We drink our coffee black like the Devil intended!" Tim calls out as he heads off towards the back halls of Grand Central Station, where they've no doubt found a suitably dark and quiet corner to hibernate.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    And thus the two Gotham Knights passed to dreams, probably with Tim leaning, head back, tablet still in hand, and Phoebe just leaning against him. 'Cause that's how exhausted besties roll.