[ The jaw would be too much like a bat under his chin, tipping his head back. There are some sensations that Tim is actively trying to avoid, and that’s one of them.
He’s not being judged. He has to keep echoing himself to not argue. The act of wiping away a tear - he doesn’t want this kind of attention and recognition. Yet Bart and Kon make this safe. He’s safe. He knows this - that’s part of why he let himself be carried off to Kansas. If he’s comprised, his friends are the best protection he could ask for.
Seeing the tear on Kon’s thumb gently pushes Tim off the emotional cliff that he’s been dancing along and falls into tears with the same slow motion surprise as if he’d missed a landing and had to save himself from the drop.
Tim doesn’t save himself, though. There’s no grappling hook, no ledges to catch on to. A steady stream of tears is accompanied by his throat feeling thick and a trembling struggle to keep his face from contorting into ugly sobs. ]
I want to be fine. I want to stop reacting to it. It keeps bleeding into everything. The bat, the touch, the chair - I hear…
[ Him. Laughing. It’s there on the edges of everything. He can camouflage it under thought exercises, distractions, analyzing the geometric patterns in a quilt if there’s nothing else to do quietly in the night. He can’t course correct away from crying; he’s going to cry until the lacrimal glands give up from exhaustion.
He wants comfort, but can’t articulate that properly aloud or in his thoughts. He wishes Dick were here, or Alfred or his parents, and chides himself for being foolish. Most of them are dead and will not be coming with tea and a hair ruffle. Tim’s arms cross low over his stomach, hands gripping his sides in an unconscious hug. ]
no subject
He’s not being judged. He has to keep echoing himself to not argue. The act of wiping away a tear - he doesn’t want this kind of attention and recognition. Yet Bart and Kon make this safe. He’s safe. He knows this - that’s part of why he let himself be carried off to Kansas. If he’s comprised, his friends are the best protection he could ask for.
Seeing the tear on Kon’s thumb gently pushes Tim off the emotional cliff that he’s been dancing along and falls into tears with the same slow motion surprise as if he’d missed a landing and had to save himself from the drop.
Tim doesn’t save himself, though. There’s no grappling hook, no ledges to catch on to. A steady stream of tears is accompanied by his throat feeling thick and a trembling struggle to keep his face from contorting into ugly sobs. ]
I want to be fine. I want to stop reacting to it. It keeps bleeding into everything. The bat, the touch, the chair - I hear…
[ Him. Laughing. It’s there on the edges of everything. He can camouflage it under thought exercises, distractions, analyzing the geometric patterns in a quilt if there’s nothing else to do quietly in the night. He can’t course correct away from crying; he’s going to cry until the lacrimal glands give up from exhaustion.
He wants comfort, but can’t articulate that properly aloud or in his thoughts. He wishes Dick were here, or Alfred or his parents, and chides himself for being foolish. Most of them are dead and will not be coming with tea and a hair ruffle. Tim’s arms cross low over his stomach, hands gripping his sides in an unconscious hug. ]