#future faking

[furiousgoldfish]

If you've found yourself in that childhood hell with a narcissistic parent, where every year you gain you get treated worse, and the older you get, the more unworthy and unlovable you are, this is why it's going on.

Narcissists are unwilling to be parents, but they're ready to take advantage of every possible benefit they think parenthood has. The perceived benefit is how the world sees them, someone feeling sympathetic or engaged with them, getting popularity based on your kid's talents, abilities and successes, people having compassion for their 'parenthood struggles', and of course, the idea of unconditional love. For them, not for the kid. They also then go on and take extra stuff, like having their personal emotional caretaker, or a target for all of their anger, someone to feel superior to, someone they can violate, insult, touch, beat, and blend with, without any kind of consequences from the outside world. There's very few scenarios that would allow them such power over another person, and parenthood happens to be one of them.

So, why do they prefer small toddlers rather than grown-up children? Because toddlers gain them attention. They can go with a toddler in public, and have people gush and admire the cuteness. They can sometimes teach toddlers to do little dances or sing for the audience. They can do pretty much anything to small children, and children won't complain or understand what is going on. They can neglect their toddlers and nobody will know. They can punish small children for crying. They can convince small children that they exist only for to make the narcissist's life easier.

Once children start developing boundaries, start saying no, and no longer gather the attention of the crowd, that is where narcissists are no longer getting as many benefits from parenthood and start emotionally abandoning the child, and shaming the child for 'growing up' and 'not being as easy to control and manipulate'. And this is not how normally things work, you don't stop loving your kid when they're growing up, you don't value them according to how much attention you can get using them. Sometimes, if a kid has a special talent and is able to get them attention via child contests or tournaments, this kid will not be obviously immediately abandoned. But it will be clear to this child that the 'love' is completely dependent on how well they do and how far they succeed. The second they stop, they know that the parental love will be withdrawn and they'll be rendered a failure.

Narcissists will ask you to go not just out of your comfort zone in order to give them what they want, they will ask the downright impossible, and when you inevitably can't give it to them, you will be discarded, and possibly punished. You will degraded from 'special' and 'important because you can do this one thing for your parent', to nothing but a target for rage, forced to feel like you deserve it because you couldn't do what no child can - make a narcissist act like a normal parent. They convince children that they would be loving and thoughtful parents, if only the child was not so x, and y, and z, and the list is endless. Endless excuses not to love their child, because withdrawing that love will make the child absolutely desperate in their attempt to please the parent, and be good enough to deserve love.

This is not what would normally happen to a child. We're meant to be celebrated for growth. Our progress into adulthood should be about us, about what we can do now, how much new experiences and excitement it brings to have a bigger body, how much more capable and safer we are, what new skills we can develop, new games we can play, better connections and understanding with others we can now achieve. It's not supposed to be about whether we are of a benefit to someone, our growth is about us becoming a happy adult! Appropriating this entire process and reducing it to 'grovel endless to deserve love, and feel guilty for growing because you're of less use now' is absolute torture to a child, who doesn't understand that it's not meant to be this way, that they were never supposed to be a tool to use.

As we mature with the narcissist continually building this narrative of us not being good enough to deserve love, we end up having no other narrative, and believe that we're fundamentally, intrinsically lacking in something, and this makes us unlovable. It has nothing to do with the truth, and everything to do with a continuous lie that someone made up about us when we were still small, that we exist as a tool and a resource, and every hint of free will and desire and personal goals and boundaries is us failing to live up to that use. We were never meant to be exist for them, there was no achievable goal, us even trying to 'deserve their love' was nothing but a waste of our time and energy. We're not unlovable. We just don't a parent. We had someone leeching off of us, taking instead of giving, convincing us we don't deserve attention, care or resources, unlike them, who deserve to take it all.

For any normal parent, everything about you would have been good enough, you would have been a source of joy and celebration without ever even trying to deserve it. Nobody has to deserve parental love, it's either given by default, or there is nobody willing to be a parent to you. Being unwilling to parent you, they have no right to expect anything from you. You did not break the parent-child bond, because there never was such a thing in the first place, they betrayed you from the start.

[daughterofanarcissistwoman]

[einlebenmitdirohnedich]

Viel Kraft an die Neue, die jetzt neben ihm liegt und noch keine Ahnung hat, was ihr in Zukunft noch bevorsteht!

[danielryancotlerpoetry]

[twinmoominmamma]

Please stop lying to me. It’s destroying me.

[findinginga]

"Captain, would you think it is possible…

 ...that Herr Laszlo will receive a visa?" - Major Strasser (Casablanca 1942)

Ingeborga has a new MacGuffin for our saga...

No, a MacGuffin is not a fast food breakfast item.  Rather, it has been described as an object of temporary focus to allow a plot line to be advanced.  In the above referenced "Casablanca", the MacGuffin was the exit visas obtained through robbery and murder.  In "The Maltese Falcon", possession of the black bird fueled murder and betrayal across the wide spectrum of those who coveted the prize.  In "Murder My Sweet" the search for the missing and elusive Velma leads Philip Marlowe into a complex mystery.  In all these examples, the MacGuffin is an aspirational goal.  Indeed, the last spoken line of "The Maltese Falcon" is that of Sam Spade responding to a question from Tom Polhaus about the heavy statue.  Spade replied to the detective (paraphrasing Shakespeare), "...the stuff that dreams are made of...".

Upon sharing my thoughts about retirement, or perhaps, continued work in a warmer climate as a "digital nomad", Inga seemed keen to discuss her own desire to escape the constraints and long winters of Northwest Russia.  My empathic internal voice was encouraging me to help her realize the dream that she expressed; however, I had learned many lessons about Inga along the way, which made me wary.  She was recently divorced and any international travel with Eva would require the explicit permission of Denis, Eva's father.  Additionally, given the state of world politics, it would be not be easy for Ingeborga and Eva to secure even travel visas for most, if not all, of Western Europe.  These factors dictated that I be deliberate in my actions.  It would be necessary to constantly question and then validate the progress of Inga toward securing the necessary documentation.

A goal or a fantasy?

With the onset of Summer 2022 there continued a succession of light, inconsequential communications with Inga.  I continued to inject as many supportive comments into our banter as possible.  I now appreciated how this was the fuel driving Inga.  I was complimentary regarding her appearance and progress in the gym.  I was supportive of her desire to improve her drawing skills.  I was also supportive of her financially by sending her small amounts of money to provide for some extras for her and Eva.  Of course, I had no way to determine how she was using the resources I supplied, but the money was not the issue for me.  If there was a way to demonstrate and model trust, I was prepared to do this even though the change I hoped to see may not be realized.

As the weeks passed over that Summer, I shared with Inga information about real estate and schools in Costa Blanca region of Spain.  In particular, I located a school I thought might be perfect for Eva.  I went so far as to attend a digital open house and asked the admissions director questions in preparation.

Despite the expressed enthusiasm of Ingeborga, there seemed to be no progress toward securing the necessary documentation.  Because I thought it ill advised to solely rely on her descriptions of the process or obstructions she may have encountered enroute to securing visas, I was independently making inquiries with the Spanish Consulate.  I was able to validate that having a visa granted to a Russian national would be extremely difficult, laborious and expensive.  Further, a tourist visa would only grant a limited stay  

It was obvious to me that Inga's enthusiasm was waning.  I suggested to Inga that if her goal was truly to find a warm weather home where she and Inga could move, there were over 100 countries granting visas to Russian nationals.  I suggested several of these as alternatives but she quickly rejected all citing either distance or potential difficulties transporting her possessions.  One country of interest to her was Cyprus, a divided island nation.  Cyprus is the adopted home of a large group of former or current Russian citizens.  A few years prior, Cypriot officials had been involved in selling passports/citizenship to Russian oligarchs.  Discovery of this forced changes in emigration law.  Cyprus reinstated visa restrictions for Russian nationals.  Inga would be forced to apply for visas just as she would have been required to enter Spain.  As for me, working as "digital nomad" in Cyprus was appealing.  Just as I had prior, I began to search out recommendations for appealing residential areas.

Summer yields to Autumn

With the rapid approach of Autumn 2022, Inga reported no progress toward securing a visa.  It was not even clear she had initiated the process.  Our communications, even though high in volume, were of predictable content - coffee, dresses, Eva and alcohol with each day being some variation of these topics.  Inga would periodically introduce comments about her frustration with making and receiving online purchases.  Sanctions, resulting in travel and commerce restrictions were viewed by Inga as insults.  Inga did casually remark in an exchange that the restrictions were compromising her ability to purchase items that she and an acquaintance had begun to sell.  This indicated that resources I had intended for her and Eva directly were being used for another purpose.  I purposefully did not react to Inga's admission.  I was not surprised and it was inconsequential to me.  I had come to expect just about anything.

In late September I was contacted by a recruiting firm to gauge my interest in accepting a locum tenens (temporary assignment) arrangement at the busiest emergency department in Chicago.  The contract was for three months and was to begin in early December and end the last day of February.  Before accepting the role, I decided to discuss the offer with Inga as both a way to demonstrate transparency and respect in a relationship but to also get some understanding what she was doing regarding her desire to move to Cyprus.  Inga made few comments about the job in Chicago other to voice support if it was something in which I was interested.  When I mentioned the timing of my assignment and a potential move to Cyprus, Inga replied that she would need to make a trip to either St. Petersburg or Moscow. Both are cities where Cyprus maintains consulates.  Inga claimed that because of Eva being in school, there was not a window of opportunity to make the trip.  Of course, she did not actually need to travel to the consulates as travel and visa related information is readily found online.  However, I did not make an issue of what was either procrastination at addressing the issue or a stall tactic.  I was more inclined to think it the latter of the two.

You guessed it...time for another scope of work for PI Labs

I was again struggling with a little cognitive dissonance as the result of my communications with Inga.  There was a disconnect between her stated goals and any initiative she was expending to realizing the same.  That, coupled with a few other casual comments, made me wonder what Inga was actually doing in the course of a day. 

I contacted PI Labs and Mikhail Levko and I agreed upon another round of direct observation of Inga.  Sections of the summary report included:

September 12, 2022 from 08:00 to 20:00 

Conducted observation of subject.  The beginning of the observation took place at: Pskov, ul. Nikolai Vasilyeva, 71g, where Ingeborga and Denis Reshetnikov currently live.

At 9:00 am, Ingeborga drove Eva to school by car: Skoda Octavia (Superb), number E 244 KU 60. This vehicle is registered to Denis.  Denis left the residence driving a Volvo in an unknown direction.  Due to bad weather and a gloomy period, a photo could not be taken.

Ingeborga returned home at 12:00.  The car was parked at the front of a beauty salon, which is located in the ground floor of the building where they reside.  Officially, the salon was re-registered for Denis's mother - Reshetnikova Elena Pavlovna.  Further until 2:30 pm Ingeborga was at home.  She left to school to pick up Eva.  Upon arrival home, they entered the residence from the side of the salon.  At 5:31 pm Eva and Ingeborga left home using the Skoda car.  At 7:36 pm Denis arrived home.  Once inside the house, he never left.  Eva and Ingeborga returned home at 8:23 pm. 

September 13, 2022 Information was requested from the surveillance cameras of the city monitoring center. The monitoring center checked the movement of the Skoda vehicle. The footage shows the silhouette of a man and a woman identifiable as Denis and Ingeborg.

Divorce did not change much...

Despite an official divorce decree finalized in April, Inga and Denis remained together and continued to share resources and who knows what else.  The report came as no surprise but did allow the confusion I was experiencing to resolve.  It also confirmed my conclusion that Inga was stalling and, again "future faking"

At least I could accept the new assignment and leave for Chicago with a clear head.

[spinnrblog]

Spotting Deceptive Promises: Discover 'Future Faking' 🤥 - making grand promises without intention - and strategies to avoid falling victim. Read more: https://t.ly/5XqZw

[thestoryofax]

Caught Myself!

So this morning I was looking up love bombing for an unrelated issue. Then realized I have been future faking and love bombing over the past couple weeks.

[glughsworld]

I gotta stop faking osdd

[mycovertnarcex]

Song about discard and future faking

[furiousgoldfish]

abusers when you're just getting to know them: considerate, extra attentive, interested, studying your every movement and reaction, delighted, understanding, compassionate, very careful not to put you in any kind of uncomfortable situation, going above and beyond just to make sure you feel safe and happy

abusers once they've got you to bond with them: suddenly blind to your every discomfort and pain, you cannot expect them to know if they're hurting you. All of a sudden unable to comprehend any of your emotional states or reactions and you're supposed to believe they're just 'like that' and so completely emotionally stupid that they can't tell when they're insulting you, making you uncomfortable, neglecting, exploiting, dismissing and hurting you.

[einlebenmitdirohnedich]

Ich würde ja gern sagen, dass ich dir wünsche, dass du endlich glücklich wirst, aber "Glück" ist etwas, das eine geschundene Seele, wie du, niemals empfinden wird! Stattdessen wünsche ich deiner Neuen viel Kraft für alles, was ihr noch bevorsteht. 🤞🏻

[phykoha]

"I have to find it before that happens.

Find the Key. Stop the Kraang."

[faeriekit]

The Foster Mother

Now on ao3 and VHS release

There was, supposedly, someone waiting for him in the green sitting room.

“…Why?” Tim asked. Most of the usual suspects had already come by to give their “condolences”—former Drakes Industries investors, curious about the newly orphaned heir; fellow socialites, once again flocking in to give and receive sympathies for their “close friends, the Drakes”; gawkers come to see what they could scavenge off of a dead family’s home, never mind that their child was alive.

“She claims to know you, Master Tim,” Alfred offered, kettle in his hand. He spent a moment deciding between different two canisters of tea; a sign of possibly difficult future conversation. “Her interest in your father's estate seemed quite…minimal.”

…Alright.

Tim was still in his formalwear. Dissolving Drake Industries would take at least another year, and plenty of future hours cementing the future home of certain resources in their dissolution, but the outfit probably was more appropriate for whatever oncoming conversation that was about to ensue than his planned change into Dick’s old hoodie and board shorts.

Okay. Tim steeled himself. The self-determination…mostly worked. Whatever. He trudged up into the green sitting room from the kitchen with his usual introduction ready on his tongue.

And then Tim walked into the room.

And then Jazzy was there.

*

Tim had been three, and Miss Jasmine had been his had been his third nanny. He’d outgrown the wetnurse early on, and his second nanny had been dismissed, so although Miss Jasmine was the third nanny, she was first nanny Tim could consciously remember.

She’d had red hair. She’d been very gentle with him.

She got him up in the morning and put him to bed at night; for the first time, there had been someone who sat with him until he was asleep, reading all sorts of books his parents had left to engage him with as an early genius. Then, when those were over and done as promised to his parents, they got unauthorized books from the library: silly books with made-up words, dinosaur books, books about teddy bears and adventures around the world.

Tim hadn’t been allowed to travel the world. Tim hadn’t been allowed a teddy bear. His parents had thought it would encourage undue attachment.

(It had been the same reason he’d never been given a pacifier.)

Miss Jazz had given him a knitted bunny. She’d said her dad had made it especially for him.

The toy’s name was Bunny and Tim remembered him being very soft.

She didn’t smile all the time, but smiles were rewards that were easy to earn. He finished his meal and she smiled. He finished an educational puzzle and she smiled. He was quiet all through her phone call and she smiled, and answered all his questions once she was done.

Jazzy had been the first person in his life who was there all the time. She’d kissed his forehead after the bath and kissed his scraped knees; she’d carried him in his arms when he was tired and sometimes even when he wasn’t. His parents had wanted him to be independent, proactive, and not clingy, but Jazzy had been someone who he could run to from his bed when he’d had nightmares and someone he could cuddle on her lap with when he’d cried.

She was gone when he was seven. He didn’t remember why. His parents had probably never told him, but still; he'd assumed he'd have found out why eventually.

Jazzy looked the same right now as she looked in Tim’s memories, although she was likely no longer a college student at a nannying gig. Her red hair was pulled into a high bun, her dress modest and conservative from her neck to her ankles. There was a backpack beside her foot. She was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, on the high-backed loveseat in the green sitting room.

She looked up when he came in.

Tim. Stopped in his tracks.

It didn’t matter. Jazzy—Miss Jasmine stood up as soon as she saw him, eyes alight with worry. Foggy memories were swimming to the forefront of Tim’s brain. He couldn’t move.

“Tim?” Ja—Miss Jasmine asked, teal eyes raking over his frame. Tim froze where he was. He didn’t move, wide-eyed and terrified for no reason at all when Miss Jasmine got closer to him, at a distance that was more appropriate for a conversation.

She stood there. Watching him. It felt like his mother had just come home from her trips with Dad, and a ghost of old terror wafted through him as he waited for her to decide he’d done something wrong. Her voice got softer. Her eyes got softer. Why was Tim feeling so wrong-footed?? It was only a former staff person!

“Tim?” her voice was so gentle. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—“

“M’s Jazz,” Tim croaked. Which. Wasn’t the level of formality he’d been going for, but better than Jazzy. He wasn’t a toddler anymore.

Miss Jasmine was so tall—honestly, was she taller than Bruce? She’d seemed insurmountable as a child; he hadn’t expected her height to truly be so statuesque as an adult.

(Or. Well. Almost an adult.)

She didn’t quite kneel down, but she did stoop lower, as if Tim was small and he needed to be on equal footing in order to have a serious conversation.

He could see all her freckles. Tim swallowed. It was too familiar. Everything about her was too familiar.

“You’re so big now,” Jazzy whispered, looking at his hair, his suit, his polished shoes. He didn’t feel it. “Oh, you’ve grown up so well.”

Thanks, Tim almost said. Something stopped him—something thick in his throat, to impassable to break through.

“I—“ he tried. He coughed. “Why…you… You’re here?”

Jazzy threw him an incredulous look, and then an incredibly wry one. “Well,” she drawled a little too primly, in the way that Alfred occasionally made obvious statements, “I’d think it obvious that when one’s parents have passed away, that those who care about you might come to check and see if you’re alright.”

Which. That didn’t make sense. Jazzy hadn’t come back for any other reason; she hadn’t come back for his mother’s funeral, nor when his father was injured publicly by a villain. Why start now?

“And,” Jazz added, seeing his visual confusion and distrust, “Your parents can’t exactly threaten me with a kidnapping charge for visiting you when they’re dead.” Pause. “Which I am sorry about. My condolences.”

Which. Whiplash. What a statement.

“Uh,” said Tim, who was rapidly losing control over the situation.

Jazzy stood again, and went back to her seat; she didn’t set herself down, though, as she only stooped to grab her backpack. “I am sorry for being unable to visit, although I really wanted to; you were at a very vulnerable age and had already moved into a class a year above you, and your parents should have been less hasty about replacing your main caretaker. The assassination attempts were unwarranted, but they did drive the point home that attempting contact was perhaps discouraged.”

“What,” said Tim. “Assassin what.”

“They were ninjas,” Jazzy offered, as if that was an answer. “Except the last one, which was a former marine. The point is that I do care about you, and wanted to ask if you had any idea where you’re going now that your parents are no longer…available guardians.”

Tim’s mouth opened. It closed.

Jazzy waited patiently.

“…How have you been?” Tim tried, resorting to a part of the script they hadn’t gone through yet.

Jazzy’s laugh was tired, but no less real. It was nothing like listening to his parents titter politely; he didn’t think Jazzy would even know how to fake a laugh. “Well, my brother told me that my former bosses had died, which was somewhat stressful. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy: I live with my brother and worked with him for the last few years. I was going to pursue medicine, but…well. The assassination attempts made it hard to interview for scholarships. I suppose that I could return to that now,” Jazzy mused, attention now elsewhere. She pulled the backpack off the floor and up into her grip. She opened it, and flipped through its contents. “How are you doing? I know that Wayne Manor fosters, but your parents were always rather…hands off. I thought the difference in levels of attention might be overwhelming.”

It was. Tim should be surprised how clearly she sees through him—

—But Jazzy used to watch him stim for almost a full hour after school, twisting Bunny’s arms back and forth until he could calm down. Seeing other people all day had been too much for him. Coming home from his parents’ parties had been similarly stressful.

She’d never been mad at him for it. She held him while he talked and stimmed and talked and talked and talked, and brushed his hair sometimes, or if it was very late and he was very young, helped him brush his teeth through all the medieval execution facts he could name.

“It is a lot to get used to,” Tim agreed quietly. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. He didn’t want to let on anyone about his plan to leave.

He had an out. The papers had already been filed; there was an actor waiting to play his uncle for a custody battle, ready for the fight.

Tim was ready to up and go. It was no hardship to leave all the good things here; anything beat making Bruce stick his fingers into Tim any deeper than they already were, compromising the dynamic they’d already established.

It was for the best.

“I can imagine,” Jazzy sympathized easily. “And I wanted to offer—well. I know there’s probably a lot of choices available to you, but my brother and I recently moved back to Gotham proper for the time being. He’s teaching astronomy courses at the university and I’m filing paperwork for Arkham patients. It’s not so privileged a home, but it’s quieter, and more central in town.”

…Tim’s heart skipped.

He. He couldn’t stop staring. Jazzy stared back at him, quiet and sure. Sure of what, Tim had no idea, but…

Why? Why would she want Tim? There was no way she would be able to get to his trust fund without his help, and he for sure knew better than to enable her ability to leech from him. The last time she’d known him, Tim had been a snot-nosed kid who cried all the time and couldn’t be normal for twenty consecutive minutes. His parents couldn’t even stand to be on the same hemisphere as him as a child. What appeal did this have for her?? What could having a teenager with severe baggage living in her house do for her?

And it’s not like there was any chance she knew he was Robin!

“Oh,” Jazzy suddenly interrupted. “I brought these for you, by the way. Your parents had tossed them out at various points; I’ve washed them since, of course.”

She handed him the backpack by the handle.

…Tim peeked inside.

On top was Bunny, still a washed-out faded sort of pink. He looked as fresh as he had the day when Tim’s parents had ”cleaned out” Tim’s nursery—in other words, a faded, a little gray, and slightly discolored from an old spaghetti stain. His button eyes were big and blue.

And beneath him were books that hadn’t passed his father’s muster as appropriately masculine reading material: The Velveteen Rabbit, with the cover a little scarred from a fierce attack of wet wipes. There’s A Monster at the End of This Book, with a goofy-looking Muppet on the cover, gold spine beat up beyond belief. Art Tim’s teacher at the time must have laminated and sent home; Tim’s dorky, crayon cat proved he would never make it as an artist, but attached to it was a photograph of a grinning boy with a bowl cut and a missing tooth.

Tim stared. There’d been purple marker on his hands and face. His grin looked…really bad, actually, like as if he was baring his teeth because he didn’t know how to smile. There was no formal grace there. Nothing to show the neighbors, nothing worth framing to put into the line of sight of the investors in the office.

Jazzy had kept it and brought it home with her. Jazzy had fished it out of the trash, and brought it with her to give back to him in Gotham.

It was crinkled like it’d been folded, over and over again. Further down in the bag was a crumpled certificate dedicated to “Timmy Drake, for: knowing a lot about octopi”, and a baby blanket Tim didn’t even remember. It had rocket ships on it. It looked as if someone had cut into it with scissors, although it had been obviously and brightly mended with red embroidery floss later on.

Jazzy had only been his nanny until Tim was seven. She had simply been gone one night, and Mom and Dad had been home for ten nights after without help before giving in and hiring Mrs. McIlvane and Mrs. Edith. Ms. Edith had never been so…permissive…with Tim as Jazzy had been.

Tim swallowed. He carefully put everything back into the backpack, unsure if he even wanted to keep it or not. It wasn’t like he could leave it here; he’d be gone, ideally, before the week was out. There was no point in taking it with him if he only planned to live with a stranger until he was eighteen.

“J…” Tim tried. He cut himself off before he could get too informal without prompting. “Miss Jasmine—“

“Just Jazz,” Jazzy corrected politely.

“—Why are you here?” Tim asked, ignoring how she’d technically already answered. He didn’t believe her. “What made my parents fire you?”

Jazzy’s expression turned…soft. Tim couldn’t look at her. Something horrible was welling with it, and he didn’t know how to cope.

“I’m here because I care about you,” Jazz repeated, and knelt beside him. She looked up into his face, and took his hand. Tim didn’t know why. He was practically an adult—he didn’t need this!

“And I was fired because your Mother overheard you calling me ‘Mommy’ on accident when you were tired. I suppose she was insulted, although I’d never know why; it’s not like she was ever home to bond with you in the first place.”

Tim’s throat closed. He missed his mom. He missed waiting up for his parents’ flight home, seeing their headlights outside the window, and knowing they’d bring home gifts from overseas. He missed using Mom’s perfume, and knowing he’d used more of the bottle sitting on her dressed than she ever had, but that it still smelled like her. He missed hearing his Dad telling all sorts of adventure stories and promises through the phone to be home for the holidays, even if Tim knew there was every chance he’d find some other way to spend the time back in Gotham.

And there was some small child in him who missed Jazzy, who hugged him and walked him to the library and made him soup from a can instead of fancy dinners and, who’d never needed to be waited for in the first place.

Tim looked at Jazzy’s round, freckled face.

He swallowed.

Tim moved out before the end of the week, as expected.

[marclef]

so uhhhhh. that Noise update huh?

great job there buddy, you've given the dang frog anxiety!