( closed )

[imaginate]

Characters: Kyle & various.
Date: Catch-all log for July.
Location: All around.
Situation: Various.
Warnings/Rating: War horrors, child abuse, mention of torture, physical and psychological.
Notes: [Action] or prose are all good. Ping me if you'd like a specific setup/threadstarter.

Comments

[imaginate]

'I'd rather against the wall, but that's unhealthy for my back, isn't it?' Rhetorical, and he sighs. 'All right. Are you going to finish your soup? I'll clean up.'

[demon_brat]

"Bad for your neck, mostly, because the head does not have enough support. The back, it depends on how much you slump, though right now," with those ribs, "yes, most likely. Also, probably not good for your hips."

Rhetorical? WHAT rhetorical?

Damian shakes his head, starting to fork his 'greens' with more focus. There is a reason he didn't serve himself soup, only salad. "I'll finish this. And spare your hands, I can manage." Beat. "Try to clear your mind." After another chewing-pause. "Think about putting away paints and brushes. In detail."

There is a bit of work to be done, in case you want to use those paints and brushes later. For a few minutes, that may actually work as detaching the Lantern from... whatever combination is pushing him awake too often.

[imaginate]

'Next thing you'll be telling me is I have artist's slump,' he grumbles. From hunching at his desk, working long hours. Sometimes he forgot to eat, then. Deadlines were more important.

I know how to cope with pain, he nearly retorts, at the suggestion to think about his brushes, but Damian is being a mother hen and... it's cute.

'Okay, thinking.'

[demon_brat]

"With our practice? Not anytime soon." Smirky, confident. He knows what those stretches do, and allowing for a slump to develop is not it.

"Good. Find that place and stay there."

Damian finishes his salad, then makes a short work of cleaning up, motions precise and systematic and simply. Fast.

[imaginate]

That is fast, but then again Kyle measures speed by the Flashes, which means everything else is just slower. Perspective was a little tough when one of your best friends could run faster than the speed of light on a regular basis.

(Not that he'd encourage Wally to, there was the Speed Force to consider.)

'This was one of the best meals I've had in a while. Thanks.'

[demon_brat]

"... isn't that why you asked for more, prepared by me?"

Hey, he's really not good with compliments.

[imaginate]

'Yeah, but some things are important to say out loud.' And reinforce.

[demon_brat]

...?

"If you say so."

What are you talking about?

[imaginate]

Never mind.

He stretches and moves towards one of the outer rooms. The rest of the dishes, he can clean later or leave to Damian to help him. It's funny that he thinks of the second option. Usually, he wouldn't. (But where Damian Wayne is concerned, usually doesn't apply.)

'C'mon, you can even read me a story now.'

[demon_brat]

... stop confusing him, Kyle.

"I can what?"

Though his voice is genuinely baffled, rather than pushy-confused. Another thing that Damian Wayne has no reference for.

[imaginate]

'I'm going to try and get some sleep.' The knife from earlier, he puts next to him. He's still angry, hurt, and suspicious, although it's less sharp.

'A story. You know. Fiction.' He pulls a futon mattress and blanket onto the floor, adjusts it so he's comfortable and then pats the ground next to him for Damian to sit.

'In theory they help people sleep.'

OH OH OH and this is how we get to that other idea...

[demon_brat]

Damian settles on the floor beside him, for all the world looking like it's the most comfortable place in the room, and cants his head.

"Fiction. Will a play do?"

Because the works of fiction that he has bothered to learn by heart is fairly limited.

walking into them nbd

[imaginate]

'A play's fine.' Beat. 'Shakespeare?'

tmw the characters line themselves up for plots without pushing.

[demon_brat]

Well...

"Yes."

[imaginate]

He adjusts slightly where he is and glances briefly at the ceiling, before turning on his side and looking intently at Damian.

'Okay. Hm. Do you know all of them or just a few?'

[demon_brat]

Neither.

"A little more than half."

[imaginate]

Now it was a game of Guess Which Plays Damian Knows. The popular ones, probably yes, but he wasn't really feeling like listening to a tale about a bloodbath, even if it was symbolic. Nor was he terribly concerned about the history plays.

'Twelfth Night?'

[demon_brat]

"If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die."

It only takes Damian a moment, to sift through to the right beginning.

[imaginate]

'That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,' he continues, smiling.

Then, a slightly ominous pause as he waggles a finger at Damian. 'Don't tell anyone that I know.'

They don't deserve to know.

[demon_brat]

"Why would anyone ever ask?" Why would they ask Damian, that is.

But, no, he is unlikely to tell.

"Is that the one you want as a 'bedtime story'?"

[imaginate]

'People get ideas, sometimes.' He waves a dismissive hand and shifts to being extremely attentive, while remaining as comfortable as possible in the blankets.

'Yeah. Go on.'

[demon_brat]

Damian's lips twitch.

"Not around me, they don't."

Not those kinds of ideas, at least.

The boy straightens his back, then starts on the play. It takes about twenty verses before he's doing voices, too, only a little. It is a play, after all, and - rarely as that shows - he does have a good imagination.