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 ??? ❞

Rouxls knows that one day, his cowardice will kill him. Or perhaps it will be his bravery.

Bravery not as in dying for a good cause, bravery like an unused muscle suddenly being asked to handle a great weight, atrophied in the way it was never used at all, and when it was; never to the extent that could dream of carrying what one day might be offered. offered to him. a stake that proclaims he must try, but an inability that demands he cannot. It was easier to run. Always easier to run. ( drawbridge uncrossed, the hesitation in him like a weed he couldn't pluck out; maybe didn't want to. music as a universal language, but he still doesn't voice what part of him wants to. asks to. refuses to. ) ━ but it gets harder, he's found, to justify. flight was easiest when he was alone, and very often, he was alone. but flight becomes it's own kind of challenge, now, as people hang to his trailing coattails and latch to his legs and ask him to stay; his own kind of bitter medicine, in a way, only made moreso when he finds it in himself to want to stay, unasked, when the sentimental part of him finds a connection; however unexpected; and says he should, despite it all, says he ought to.

this feels the same, a quiet part of him recognizes, because it is the same. no one asked him to play, and yet, and yet… ( the drawbridge uncrossed, his courage a fickle thing, but still; he reaches out a hand. he reaches, reaches, reaches. the water below like a threat. the water below like a boundary. the water below like a promise of something on the other side. )

the Duke listens. mindful, pale eyes resting gently upon her in an attentiveness often forgone, unknown, as a nail traces the grain of the instrument, thoughtful… his harsh silhouette cast upon the dark sky shifts as he turns to her, face a little more considering, and maybe a little more understanding. he looks to the flute, as though his true care is to it and not she, a minor salve to his pride, as he answers.

" while I doth not have such stake in thy 'homesickness', thine testament is undersold in mine opinion, if i might offereth, " Rouxls begins, eyes flicking over almost nervously, before forcing himself to continue whether it was asked of him or not ( if he didn't, it'd never be said ) ━ " a 'musical teacher' such as thineself is no simple task! and nay either doeseth it forbid you from such fears. "

he places a hand 'pon his chest and closes his eyes, as though to emphasize dramatics as a savior. " Ne'er waseth mine intention to befall as the young prince's warden, and yet, such a surprise doeseth circumstance bring! but, ah… " Rouxls pauses, glancing off to the side, considering and perhaps uncertain, before his eyes go back to Dandie. he allows himself, if only for now, to become something a little more real. just for now, just for now... " with such roles, t'is… expected, for dread or doubt to findst thee. "

" all wish to avoideth pains, minor or major, to those inest our'n keep despite how oft there is ever something unavoidable. t'is… " he searches for the right words, or perhaps, studies himself to offer a better answer than the one he had ( he can't help but think back to Lancer's father, his own cowardice to stand for the right, how it all played out… ) " a most unique kind of hell, I must admiteth fairly, especially in such unfamiliar lands… "

Rouxls takes a breath, steadying himself for a sincerity part of him tries to wriggle out of, and looks at her proper. reaching out, reaching out, and under him; the drawbridge offering it's sturdy wood forward beneath his heel; he acknowledges that he doesn't have the answers either, but it couldn't stop him from offering what he did. " but while agonies may be most difficult to keep at bay, they know their capability, and in thee, they have a great ally. "

" And nor is their pains the fault of your own-! we... we do what we can, and it must be enough. But they art strong, they shall wage well on their own, and in doubt, they know who to turneth towards. They have thus far, have they not? " he offers what he hopes to be a reassuring smile. neither of them have the answer to this question they ask, maybe no one did, but he knows to trust them. it's hard, it's unbearable, but so is growing up. so is living, living, living...

and then it's as though something occurs to him, and the sincerity is momentarily edged back with a now nervous grin, eyes flitting. ( wriggling, still, but he means what he said )

" ━ Ah, although, mayhaps keepeth such faith between us, yes-? I'd prefereth not to have the purple one bite at me for such admittances, or worse yet, she begin to gloat━ "

𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐧𝐞 wasn't an odd thing between them, although it had been spurred by her bardic tendencies, in the past. it was in her nature. sharing an earbud, plucking a string. her voice was nigh always raised in some fashion of song.

it was little wonder why the duke might offer music to her, this time. to the lightener, it almost seemed like music was magical, all on its own. a universal language. a salve to weariness.

" that's--…that's true. " she eyed the little flute and in that moment felt a connection. the dark world felt so foreign to someone who only knew "music class" and "teachers' lounge" and "crappy apartment at home." but, darkeners knew music. they knew puzzles. they knew how to throw down drawbridges and cross gaps and hold out their hand, when they met someone that resonated with them. perhaps there was a measure of comfort in knowing that, while opposite to home, there were similarities in the reflection.

that wasn't to say that she hadn't noticed rouxls' hesitation on the matter. the attempt to cheer her with music was sweet, but his feet hadn't crossed that drawbridge. and, ever introverted, dandie stayed on the other side. watching, quietly.

" uh…i guess that's pretty transparent… " her thick brows tamped downwards. always prone to fidget with her dulled claws, when she was on edge. " …i think it's homesickness, in part. but the other, bigger part is just…making sure the kids are safe. "

it was something that made her a brilliant teacher, of course, but her mother henning also brought on a shade of worry. how could it not? children kris and susie's age were starting to try to find themselves, in the world. it was scary. it was hard. and being somewhere like this, though they seemed to thrive, she couldn't help worrying for their well-being.

" i'm sure there are times where you worry about lancer, too. and--…i know that i'm just the music teacher, in the light world. but i still can't help but feel attached to kris and susie - even ralsei, at this point. i don't want something bad to happen to them. " a pause. a mirthless chuckle. " i don't think i'd forgive myself, if that happened. "

Whenever they wake up like this, they feel like they're 6 years old again. ━ Factually, this is not correct, and cannot be correct. When they fell, they were something young, but never that young, never again. Their childhood was one of independence & the orange-gold crest of a mountain's shell & the routine of tending to chickens before wandering in the long rye, alone as a child, together here. When they were 6, they were taught how to feed animals and how to pick berries. When they were 6, they were taught the right way to hold an oil lamp. When they were 6, there was still glass jar waiting. And maybe it's still waiting. They can't remember. But now, 13 hangs on their teenage bones like a reminder of what world they're living in, and how many times they've lived it renders it null. Memory lost until they look in the mirror, and it's still to early to bother. Ouroborus in the long grass, snake in the bedframe, serpent in Eden.

But the serpent has just awoken, and while somewhat peckish, they could wait til dinner. Hunger unto hunger unto hunger until someone matters more than the process looping again ( and maybe from a different life, maybe from the one they're in, they can still smell the smokeless heat of fire, of protection )

Frisk rubs their eyes, hair disheveled, as one hand tries to comb it down. They end up distracted by a spot of acne on their jaw that they'll have til they're 15, no matter what they do about it, as they peek at Toriel from behind thick tangles. ━ for how many times they've heard it, will hear it, they'll never get tired of the voice that greets them when they have the privilege to hear it at all. That priviledge is granted then revoked then granted again, but still, that never stopped them calling.

" M'hm… " the hum of Frisks voice betray the sleep they try to wriggle off as they finally brush back their bangs to observe the chaos-that-was-yet-to-occur-but-most-certainly-coming, notably ducking to attempt in peering beside Toriel's legs into the oven like getting a sneak-peek of a surprise. Alas, without a bulb, the oven retains its secrets. Their dark eyes look up at Toriel as they right themselves, and while they always seem tired, they always seem brighter with her around " Migh'wanna grab a brush before I get th'burner covered in this- " they waggle the hand still with its fingers combed & caught in a bundle of their brown bangs, some strands giving out and falling back into their eyes " -but 'll help. like helpin'. " they nod as they say the last part, as though confirming it themselves to be true, which they already were, but it doesn't hurt!

as they saunter down the hall to snag a brush or comb you could've sworn they'd never seen before, they all but trot back to Toriel as they wrangle their locks into place, eyes brighter, sharper now as they glance around the kitchen " What're we makin' today? "

The heavenly smell of baked goods radiate from the kitchen. A warm glow that lures you in with the promise of homely comfort. It's there you'll find Toriel mid-prep. The pie crust has already been set aside and she's at the oven with a slight sway to her hips. The light hum of instrumental music coming from an unknown source. You're quiet, though it's not enough to keep her from noticing you.

"Oh. What timing. Did you sleep well?" Her voice is soothing, Motherly. The look of joy expressed in a kind smile. "If you're feeling rested I could use some help in the kitchen today." / @quillheel

It's casual and not at the same time, the way he looks at Akira, and maybe he is what he fears him to be. ━ good reason to be cautious held behind the sharp edges of dull red eyes, both settled 'pon the ravenette, in the knowledge of who he is; what he does; and what you cannot say. His gloved fingers idly trace careful lines in his cups porcelain ridges with a concealed nail, idle as his attention rests squarely on the shoulders of conversational interest ( his subject, maybe, in the way he's been watching since he entered, only when Akira wasn't looking; eyes catching yours like he knew when you were ) making it feel almost the same as a teenage girl fiddling with her hair when someone she liked spoke to her, casual and innocuous and not at the same time, electricity bouncing off the cup; off the countertop; off the skin.

Maybe he is a live-wire, warning of twisted metal still too clever not to hold a current with a voltage that'd kill you if you let it, if you didn't. Electricity like a haze forcing hairs to stand, the mind to repeat mantras, strain of a mask he could not see; but knew was there. Maybe he is, electricity swimming in the pool with him, or maybe it's something worse than that, and you just couldn't see it yet. ━ only one person who could hide it. only one person who knew the tricks. make it two, and make it count. ( I wonder what happens when predator and predator get put in the same room, no matter how much one considers the other ; or perhaps themselves ; as prey, it is predator and predator. crow and cat and vulture. three; who was what, or what did you have in common? )

" Oh, I'm sorry! I should've made it more obvious. " Akechi responds as though that in a way is an answer, eyes crinkling with the motion of apology, but not quite closing. a dip of the head, brows arched, clean soft hair falling nicely where the longest of it barely touched his shoulders.

" As a detective I have a habit of studying people, like people watching, and there's just some little things I noticed about you, is all. I usually don't point it out, but you're an interesting exception. " He shifts back, eyes flicking to scan the space behind the counter, Sojiro caught in a glimpse in the back; careful consideration, but hard to know what he sees. ( can't get a read… ) ━ they flick back to Akira, pinning him too with a focus that seems so innate; but so easy to squirm under at the same time. interrogation lights in the way he watches you. " If you'd like, I can point out how I got my conclusion! But first, I'd like to know, was I right? " ( nerves hidden under the skin, and spotting them where the cracks shine through. he doesn't hold the gaze, glancing, out of confusion of intention; or fear? controlled breath like evidence; so he is afraid of you, or maybe he's just nervous, unexpecting of the question and your presence like a hawk in a henhouse; somewhere considered safe, right? that's the act, motions too practiced to be new here, safe behind the counter, safe beneath the radar. does he know you? good question, good question, good question. ━ he must ━ but maybe you're wrong. time to tell, time to tell... ) It's only guessing, after all. ( but it's so hard to tell )

quillheel asked:

"Obedience does not come naturally to you, does it?" // from Akechi to Akira! never listen to this man, now because he isn't intelligent enough to follow but because its funnier when its small shit <3

Meme Tag -- @quillheel

"What do you mean?" Akira returns question for question, opting to finish what he's doing behind the counter before glancing at the teen detective.

It's weird for him to just be there, sitting behind the counter, right? Akira can't help the dance of electricity over his skin, almost as if Akechi is the source of a livewire and he's standing dangerously close. Be cautious, be careful, chants around his mind almost unhelpfully at this point. It's not like being nervous about the guy is going to do anything helpful for him, just make him more nervous, and he tries to stamp down on the spinning thoughts with a small controlled breath.

Not that he's thrilled with the idea of having the detective just randomly appear at LeBlanc. Does he know? Or maybe he suspects something? And he pins Akechi with a questioning look, eyes mostly hidden by his messy bangs. Or maybe he means Akira's record?

@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. )

swing with me