By Now, Robin Really Should've Been Used To Preparing For All Kinds Of Weather Given How Long He's Been

By now, Robin really should've been used to preparing for all kinds of weather given how long he's been doing this thing. ━ Bruce had never really been a take a scarf kind of guy, though, more of a check you have the essentials type, so maybe the little things couldn't be helped as much as he 'should' or 'shouldn't' have already been ready for a surprising cold-shock this early into the season. ( he's pretty sure he's already spotted ice beginning to form on the skins of uncovered pools and rivers, even if snow hadn't come just yet )

That still didn't make the cold air biting at his nose any kinder, though. the handful of thin layers between him & the chill, gloved hands tucked into his letterman jacket and curled into fists in efforts to shake off the icy feeling, weren't exactly the most promising. the white eyes of his mask stiffen into some kind of wince at the intensity as they step out of the building they'd been in, chasing leads, finding dead-ends, as his breath turns into a fog the second they pass through the doors. it was the usual kind of work for Robin, though he was mostly accustomed to doing it alone lately.

Maybe that's part of why he's unexpecting that the comment made just after breathing a flame of swirling fog from his nostrils as though proving a point ( though mostly just for fun ) was answered with such an unhesitating response, unseen eyes snapping to look at Bart in surprise as he offers out his coat. He can't help but blink.

" Yeah, I like coffee, " Robin offers the answer as he, a little tentatively, takes the jacket " Learned how to make it pretty young, so you kind of get used to it either way after a while. "

" But what about you? " the eyes of the mask take a harsh squint, head cocking on an angle, he gestures a little with the jacket; not straightening it out just yet to put it on " You're going to freeze without it, or does it not effect you the same way? " ━ an honest question! he wouldn't be all that surprised if Bart's heartrate was innately fast enough that the cold didn't quite get it's claws in him the same, but he'd rather be certain before casting him to the chilly air, too. ( or at least, be able to plan ahead to right it later. )

@quillheel / Robin : I did not dress warm enough for this…

bart gave him a funny look, brows furrowed with a little frown . and in the blink of and eye, his own jacket is taken off his shoulders and OFFERED up .

❝ say something sooner next time, dude !! it’s freezing . ❞ bart didn’t seem bothered by the cold despite that fact . ❝ here, take it . we can get some coffee or something, too . you like coffee, right ??? ❞

tell link i said gaia says hi

Tell her he said hi, too.

If looks could kill, by now he'd be dead thirty times over, he'd imagine.

So maybe it's just dauntless pride in such a fact ━ or perhaps some fashion of exhaustion from seasickness, given how much running around, swinging, and jumping he's had to do lately, though he's been handling it like a champ ━ that the boy doesn't wilt away from her trite gaze, but the name ( or title, rather ) does get a displeased squint from him, thick brows furrowing in a mild irritation. he didn't much care for it, and such a fact he was not afraid to display, despite it all.

he huffs, looking off as he crosses his arms over his chest and puffs a lip only slightly in attitude, hair a tangle on the saltwater breeze. " as y'wish, captain, 'suppose I ought not tell y'what the crew broke on deck while y'weren't lookin, then. " ━ petty as ever, isn't he?

@quillheel : “ I see great rage in y'er future. ” // from WW link to tetra!

Mixed Starters || Accepting

▲☠️▲❝ It'll be in your future too if y'don't keep those comments to yourself, swabby. ❞

Ohhhh if looks could kill.

@playedbetter // lyric starters; without mythologies by the weakerthans.

Maybe the scariest part of seeing Kim with a fever, hot-cold all the time and aching, was less about the fever itself; it was about seeing how that sickness pried back the composure on him like skinning a beetle of its shell, it was less the times he was asleep and more when he was awake; often irritated beneath a reluctance to engage at all and murmuring barely there mostly through the breath of wheezing, it was more about the times he murmured at all.

The Lieutenant's apartment is clean, and maybe it would've reminded you of the Pox if not for the fact you were allowed within it's walls where many weren't, and the various small details that filled itself in on it's own lived in qualities. Clean but imperfect, and unable to escape from the fact of the city you both lived in ━ Revachol whispering on the paint cracked window-sills as summer heat leaked in through them, on the smell of maybe something rotten. gasoline. vaguely something plantlike, like trees bending their leaves up to break up the noise.

There are exactly 11 trees along Kim's street. Maybe you would've noticed in the way here, or maybe not, since Kim invited Harry over after struggling; frustratingly inattentive; throughout the day on a case, and the first time Kim had handed over his place at the wheel of the Kineema so willingly since the beginning of it's service at the station ( it might've been the station's vehicle, one he was lucky to have been able to take with him when transferring over to station 41 after a major amount of string-pulling, ass kissing, and excuses about repairs, but in the end it was always Kim's baby ) to Harry. ━ so naturally, there were many other things to notice when one is entrusted with the golden ticket of a sick man almost begging him not to crash the damn thing than the amount of trees on Kim's street. But there are still 11 trees, and one way or another, you'd gotten home.

And in this home, Kim lays on his back on his couch, glasses removed and eyes covered with a cool wet cloth as a radio plays some random station quietly enough to be unintrusive but still filling a white noise ━ something classical, or at the very least, instrumental. the voices of the piece if you focused on it no more than a distant kind of cloud that wasps over hazily on compressed air waves ━ and occasionally he murmurs to himself, quiet and voice shot. this was the scary part, what he'd say. what it'd tell you. this was the scary part, to hear him through the softest electrical hum...

" si je pouvais, je ferais de toi une rivière déchaînée avec des rapides en colère alimentés en pluie, pour que tu puisses toujours serpenter et pouvoir toujours t'enfuir… " ━ breathe in. ( if i could, i would make you a raging river with angry rapids supplied with rain, so you could always meander, and forever be able to run away… )

sings to himself, rather, here. sings to you? the language hangs on his tongue, syllable after syllable.

" sans lutter… contre les mythes mal interprétés, contre la douleur… " ━ breathe out. ( without contending… with myths wrongly interpreted, with pain… )

he does, sing to you. the only person you can remember who would, regardless of intention. he breathes with the music, and with it comes over with the terror of an honesty so grandiose it becomes small again; marble-like; like an unfulfilled wish he offers out, downy feathered, anyways, because the sentiment matters more than whatever it is now. maybe he doesn't even realize he says it out loud to begin with, but he does, whispers in the gentle shuffle of the apartment's small spaces, composure a dream he hasn't woken into, rarely; rarely, a heart on his sleeve. ( like speaking in your sleep. like honesty when you don't realize it, laid back on the worn cushioning of a couch, allowing himself not to see, allowing himself to merely be, be there. to drive him home. trusting. trusting you. )

summer vibe

1. you've bitten every hand that has ever reached for you because pain is all you've ever known them to be capable of, and it's a lesson you won't suffer twice

2. they were warned not to stick their fingers through the bars of your cage, but not only did they not listen, they went and opened it up with their clever, gentle hands that not even your sharp teeth and terrible claws could deter from showing you what kindness could feel like, and crossed over the threshold to stand inside/on your side/by your side/all of the above

3. the difference between setting something free and setting something loose is a matter of definition

4. the definition of a monster depends entirely on where you're standing