#I suspect I might have auditory processing issues | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mentally-ill-and-nd-culture-is · 2 years

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(first of all, im so sorry for using this blog as a place to post this kind of thing. on my main blog, posts like these wouldnt get much attention. this blog, however, has over 2,000 followers and a lot more people who are willing to give input! so, i use this blog for this kind of thing as well. if you dont want to see this content, ill be tagging all posts similar to this as "not culture" in future. i know this is not the kind of blog you'd expect to see content like this, and im sorry, but it's the only place i can think of to ask with a fairly good idea that someone might respond.)

okay so i had this idea to write down a list of what i think might be my "autistic symptoms". im writing this down both to help myself and to ask the people who see this if it seems possible that autism might be worth looking into and talking to a professional about.

obviously im not asking anyone on here to diagnose me, or tell me i do have it. but i am asking autistics to provide input, if theyre willing, to give an indicator on whether it seems like something worth looking into for me, if they relate etc. thank you! the info and symptoms will be under the cut.

its going to be very very long so i'll be impressed if anyone actually reads it haha

first of all, i also do suspect that i have adhd, so keep that in mind as you look through this that some of these might just be adhd symptoms.

1. i have always found it very hard to make friends, and have a skewed idea of what a friend is. for me, introducing myself to people and talking to them feels like a huge task. all my current friends have been introduced to my by first friend that i met at my school, and barely any of them i made myself. when talking to a person, especially the first few times, i feel immense pressure to form the right facial expressions and laugh at the right things. i often have to pay a lot of attention to smiling at the right times and nodding to show im listening.

as for having a skewed idea of what a friend is, i often have a lot of trouble figuring out what friend means. for example, i sit next to this girl in my art class. we talk sometimes, because we are often told to work together on projects. she's nice, and talking to her isnt wildly unpleasant, although i do feel that pressure to smile, laugh, and nod at the right times even though it doesnt come naturally to me. and she does tend to speak in a way that is difficult for my auditory processing issues, but other than that she's pretty nice. however, i wouldnt consider her a friend because well, my standard of a friend involves a lot more than just talking a few times in one class! however, when i talked about how i dont really have any friends in my classes, she seemed offended and asked "what about me?" as if i was supposed to know we were friends. i mean, she never told me, and we've not talked a huge amount. so it kind of confused me why she considered us friends and expected me to know that even without telling me that was how she saw our relationship!

2. i have "samefoods". i heard of this person describing a phenomonon often experienced by autistics, and they called it samefoods. it basically means eating the same food for sensory or routine purposes over and over and over for a prolonged period of time. my most prevalent example of this would be cheese sandwiches. i ate a cheese sandwich every day for the first eight years that i was in school. every single day, the same sandwich. i didnt get sick of it until somewhere during sixth grade, in which i became utterly repulsed by it and ive refused to touch a cheese sandwich ever since. i think it came from the comfort of it being the exact same thing every time. it was part of my routine, and its sameness comforted my sensory issues. i do this with a lot of foods over time, however none have lasted quite that long.

3. related to the last point, "pickiness in eating". i have always, always, always been labelled as a picky eater. i used to think i really just was picky. however ive come to understand that it might not just be that? its possible its due to routine reasons and sensory issues!

4. just??? not understanding social things??? until VERY recently i did not realise that rolling your eyes did not mean literally rolling your eyes in a circle, it is just looking up and then back down??? thats what NTs call eye rolling?? what??? suddenly it makes so much sense why people call me rude when i look at the ceiling so i dont have to make eye contact. anyway, aside from that, i often struggle to grasp why the hell social norms are what they are, and what the point of them existing is. other people seem to understand the norms almost instinctively. however i dont know they exist until someone tells me explicitly, or i learn by trial and error of me making a social mistake multiple times and them getting angry at me for it.

5. my raads-r scoring seemed. well. very indicative of autism. it was, if i recall correctly, 187 points. it was definitely above 180 points but i dont remember exactly.

6. i always wear a sweater??? i dont know if this is to do with Sensory Stuff but i feel like it might be to do with routine. im always wearing one, even if its super hot out. i constantly am asked "its 40 degrees (celsius) why are you still wearing a sweater??", like all the time, and its unexplainable. im just wearing it and i cant take it off because that feels awful. like im sweating to death but idc

7. masking. so, ive always felt like i have to kind of force myself to have appropriate reactions to things and act normal, as mentioned in #1. however... it doesnt feel as exhausting as it seemed to feel to other ND people. like, its so tiring, and a lot of the time at the end of the day i come home and do nothing because i have no energy just from masking all day! but it seems to be more distressing to other people than it is to me so idk

8. so i heard hyperlexia is a commonly associated autism trait and idk how early i learned to read n shit, but from a pretty young age i was very good at reading and writing etc, dunno if it was hyperlexia or not tho

9. stimming!!! i stim so much. its almost constant. often its kind of swaying from side to side while standing, wiggling my toes, bouncing my foot, etc. my favourite one to do while watching youtube is twist around my earphones cord, make one bit into a circle and push another bit through it.

10. bfrbs i think are also common in autistics or nd people in general. i skin pick, rip off my nails, bite the inside of my cheeks until they bleed, etc. its to the point where people notice and make comments sometimes.

11. sensory issues in general. along with my food issues, i have texture issues too!! and auditory issues. my worst auditory one is when people rub their hands together. it literally feels like someone is grating my ears and it makes me want to rip my ears out or scream. i often stim and get very upset when people rub their hands together around me, which sucks especially in winter when all people are doing is rubbing their hands together to warm up. with texture, theres just certain things ill touch and immedietely feel repulsed by, to the point where im trying to wipe the feeling off on my clothes. another issue i have is dry skin- sometimes, touching my skin to other parts of my skin feels unbearable. right now it feels so awful when i touch my fingers together which is making it hard to type this. sometimes this is a full body experience.

12. however i only have small routines. i mean, i love planning and stuff, it makes me brain happy to follow plans and make schedules etc but (i think its the adhd) i dont often have the patience to follow through with them which can be upsetting and frustrating and sometimes it makes me feel a bit gross

13. i get really upset when changes are made to the plans i already have. when i have a plan for the day, and somebody tells me they can't make it/we have to do something else/cant do certain thing etc it makes me so frustrated and upset to the point of crying. to avoid that i make back up plans for every activity i plan, so that if something goes wrong ill have a backup idea i can still do so that i wont get as upset, since that thing was already pre-planned and part of my day.

14. not sure if this is an autistic trait, but i struggle with following instructions. if someone tells me "clean your room, take out the trash and wash the dishes", it gets very confusing because "which one do i do first?" "how throughly do they want me to clean my room?" "do they want me to take out the trash and then put a new bin bag in or not?" "should i dry the dishes too?" "which dishes need cleaning?" etc. theres so many variables. i need clear instruction to do tasks or i wont be able to do them. furthermore, when i ask my parents for food and they say yes, i often have to ask exactly how much im allowed because if they don't tell me how much im allowed, what do i eat? and theyll often just say "well, just take a reasonable amount! you know what a normal amount is!" and i dont know that, so i just dont eat.

15. echolalia! i think i experience it, at least. i'll repeat phrases ive heard before over and over, or make random noises many times, maybe as stimming?

16. i heard that autistic people often have a weird gait and posture! well, this could be a result of my scoliosis, but my posture is very strange. and as with my gait, my podiatrist let me know i have a weird way of walking as well

17. i love and hate rules. rules are great because it means i know what to do and what not to do, and its even better if the rules are super complete so i understand exactly what's required. rules also suck, though, because they often dont make much sense or feel ridiculous.

18. my emotions feel super intense sometimes, and super muted in other times

19. sometimes, especially recently, ive had trouble discerning when im hungry. its felt like hunger is the same kind of hurt as when im too full, or just a regular stomach ache. i cant tell the difference.

20. i rehearse conversations often, which might be scripting. i constantly think about questions people could ask me (even if its very unlikely/weird) and come up with a good response so that if i am ever in that situation i can answer them. even mundane conversations i script.

21. its difficult to interpret peoples facial expressions- what i think is anger could actually be amusement, etc

22. i experience shutdowns, i think. i have no energy to write about what they feel like so do with that what you will

this is not nearly all of them, but this list is already so long and i doubt people will read to the end so! here we are, im ending it early. um, congrats if you read most/all of this and thank you! i would appreciate any input at all <3

#autism #autistic #asd #asdfghj im so sorry for this!!!#im kind of embarassed about posting this ngl?#im not sure why #theres just sm embarassment i feel when i post stuff asking for help with things i should be able to figure out myself #but this blog has a great autistic community in it and i figured this post would get more attention here #not culture #< make sure to block the not culture tag if you wish not to see this kind of post@#love yall!

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autiebiographical · 3 years

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Hi! I suspect that I might be autistic, but something that I've heard a lot of autistic people say is that they have issues with loud noises or flickering lights, but I can go to concerts and clubs just fine, actually I enjoy it. However, if I'm in the kitchen for example, and my mom is cooking, the radio is on, someone is making noise with a chip bag and so on, I get really overwhelmed. So I'm not sure if my auditory issues are different or if it might just be my adhd?

While autistics having issues with loud noises is the auditory issue most talked about it’s far from the only one. Every autistic processes auditory input differently. I’d probably really enjoy concerts and clubs as well if it wasn’t for all the people. I love loud music, especially when it has really good bass, and flickering lights aren’t an issue for me.

I remember making a comic about how I hate loud noises but I love loud music, and I got a lot of comments of people saying that they were the same. They didn’t like sudden, and uncontrolled loud noises, but loud music is different. You’re far from the only autistic, or suspected autistic, who enjoys clubs and concerts (more like enjoyed them in the before time!)

Different noises affect different people. I love loud music but I can’t stand the sound of styrofoam. It’s not about volume, but about the sound itself.

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kat-hawke · 3 years

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Kul Tiran Backing

A puddle broke beneath the soles of the Director's boots as she journeyed through the rain across the city of Boralus. Eyes swept across open streets from beneath the hood of the long coat, drops of water cascading off to the sides. The amount of rainfall here stirred up memories of her Gilnean childhood for only a minute before she shifted focus to the upcoming meeting.

"I don't think I've ever seen you nervous," Alyssa chimed across the telepathic link. "Anxious, sure. But nervous—"

"Are you making a point here, or?" Kat interrupted.

"No. Just curious. Why does she make you nervous and not anyone else?"

"It's not her. It's the topic at hand. Doing this puts an unnecessary risk on other financial ventures and our relation, should she decline. Yet, I'm left with little other options to seek funding." Kat admitted as the office came into view across the plaza.

"There's also the matter of what I plan to do. Pad her funding line with my own coin to avoid potential investigations into my financials. She won't like it, I know. To keep that behind her back creates more risk while revealing the matter could turn her away."

"Well, if she doesn't need to know, then why risk it? What she doesn't know won't hurt her." The dagger-bound woman practically shrugged in her tone.

"It could hurt us both. I'll consider your point," Kat sneered.

Drowning out the warlocks reply, she swung the office door open, the bell above the frame emitting the soft chime throughout the space, announcing Kat's arrival to the noblewoman seated at the desk. Pulling back the soaked hood with a smile, the pair commenced with the standard pleasantries. An informal greeting, inquiring on one another's state of wellbeing, and a brief catch-up of the recent Scourge invasion.

"My family is all well and safe, and Stormhollow did not suffer the Scourge. I would consider things well and good." Lady Stalsworth answered as she eased back into the seat, following their courteous handshake.

"Glad t'hear," Kat nodded, swinging one knee over the other as she dropped into the adjacent chair. "Gransonee was spared from the dead risin' again as well. So, no effect on our current arrangements as it stands." She paused for a moment. "Unless, of course, ya' wish fer changes?"

"Unless there are reasons why I should wish for changes, I see no need. Do you?"

The Director shook her head slowly. "None wot-so-eva. Th' profit flows, th' people are happy, and the hamlet has been able t'repair and expand some infrastructure. Most importantly, it keeps Jasper out of m'ear."

Elaianna chuckled in a breath, a faint smile touching the corner of her lips. "You did not write to me about our current business affairs, but rather, a new one if I am to understand your letter correctly?"

The pleasantries were dismissed. Both women preferred to discuss business over the former at every meeting.

"That is correct, yes. While this proposal is of another nature, it bears no effect on the current trade agreemen'." Kat cleared her throat, ignoring a comment from Alyssa as she pulled a ledger from the coat. "I'm sure yer aware of th' current state of the Kingdom, yes?"

"Presuming you mean things such as the King's absence and an ill-chosen replacement on the throne in the meantime? Yes. I cannot say things are any better here, as the Lord Admiral has also gone missing."

"I was referin' more t'the current economic situations." The Director clarified, collecting her hands upon the leather cover of the ledger.

"Aye," the Lady dipped her head in a shallow nod. "Such things come with recent events."

"More-so when on th' tailwinds of a long and costly war," Kat added. "Stormwind is, well t'be blunt, fractured. Th' military cutbacks, coffers empty...surely ya' know wot follows there. Taxes and overexertion. Th' nobles houses are all in a tiff, vyin' fer favors and agreements in exchange fer gold. Sharks, th' lot of 'em."

"I am an affluent woman, but I cannot cease an entire kingdom from going into taxation," Elaianna remarked, weaving her fingers together and studying the Director. "So what favor and agreement are you looking for?"

Kat quickly wet her lips, knowing her discomfort in this proposal was visible to a small degree, and while the dagger-bound woman was silent, Kat knew she was listening. Without further delay, she promptly opened the ledger to her Unit's budget and slid it across to Elaianna.

"I do no' have th' time or patience t'lobby the houses while they are in congress fer fundin', nor would I likely care for th' things they ask in exchange. My Unit is internal affairs, we are no' combat facin', but many believe wot we do is of little value."

"What -do- you do? Especially in times post-war?" Lady Stalsworth inquired, glancing over the ledger.

"Th' same as we would durin' war. We handle issues that extend beyond th' capabilities of the guards; serial killin's, drug cartels, slave rings, th' occasional cults." Kat picked at her nails in her lap, out of the other's view.

"Our latest project has no' been well received by m'peers, and I narrowly dodged havin' the Unit axed with my proposal. With the right resources and time, we could document and categorize these dangerous people's thought processes and mental states. Study them, if you will, and create a possible method t'detect these behaviors before they manifest into somethin' larger. However, with no fundin' or resources, I canno' produce the results needed to keep my Unit from disbandment."

"And you're looking for..." Elaianna asked as she found no estimated total within the ledger.

"Wot eva yer willin' t'give." Kat answered plainly. "I hate t'even ask at all, given our current professional relationship. And I certainly do no' expect charity either."

The Lady nodded again, motioning toward the Director. "Would monthly increments be of use, or were you hoping for a singular lump sum?

"Monthly would be ideal, luv'. A lump sum may create too much of a surplus that others may try to pillage."

"I can commit to supporting your Unit on a monthly basis." Elaianna pushed the ledger back across the desk with her answer.

Inquisitively, Kat stared and collected the ledger, returning the book to her coat as she hesitantly asked, "And in return?"

With a simple shrug, the Lady answered, "I would ask what I would hope you would already do. If you happen upon any knowledge of a threat to Stormhollow or my family, you will let me know so that we might protect our people and ourselves."

A soft hum rattled with Kat's throat. This was something she would have done already, yes. But while Elaianna had never given her a reason to be mistrusted, Kat struggled to believe one would ask only this in return for funding. A thought that Alyssa did little to dismiss.

"That I would already do, yes. Though I will add that if ya' have an issue within Stormhollow that falls within wot m' Unit handles, I would be more than happy t'direct focus there until the matter is resolved."

"Thank you."

Kat lifted her hand, "it is I who owes ya' thanks, twice over."

"Then let us call it a deal." Elaianna smiled, extending her hand over the desk to cement the agreement.

Now at the crossroad of revealing or secreting her intend, Kat's conflicting thoughts churned again as she eyed the offered hand. Forcing her way through, she began to reach but recoiled at the last second.

"Don't do it," Alyssa argued to no avail.

"There is one more thing," Kat muttered, clearing her throat.

"I will pull funds from my personal accounts, those undocumented linked to Gransonee. Doin' so on m'own would draw attention and force m'hand into revealin' th' island and hamlet publicly, which would then force a pledge to the Alliance or vassalage t' a noble house. Against the wishes of its people. I will hide th' funds I sent in the same ledger line as yer own." The Director admitted, letting out a heavy breath as if a weight had been lifted.

"I wanted ya' t'know, rather than keep it hidden from ya' and risk an auditory blowback."

Immediately, Elaianna's lips pursed, and a low hum vibrated behind the displeased expression as the offered hand was withdrawn. The silence which followed lingered uncomfortably between them for a solid minute as Kat held her breath and avoided the Lady's gaze.

"I suspect such will not pose a problem," Elaianna finally spoke, "as it is assisting the Kingdom."

Kat's shoulders dropped as she relaxed and let out her breath.

"I wanted t'be honest and transparent in m'intentions than lead ya' blind and risk everythin'."

"I appreciate that," The Lady smiled faintly. "Thank you."

"Th' consequences will be mine, and only mine t'bear should anythin' happen." Kat offered her hand to complete the transaction with a nod, relieved when Elaianna nodded and took the hand in a firm shake.

"Let us hope such things do not come to be."

Standing to exit, Kat fixed the position of her coat, which had shifted slightly while seated. The hood remained down, as the sound of rainfall beyond the door had ceased during their exchange.

"Light and Shadow keep ya' and yer family, Lady Stalsworth."

"Tides guide you and yours, Lady Hawke."

Resisting the urge to correct and discourage using such a title, Kat resigned to dipping her head and turning towards the door. Quickly leaving the office and taking in the scent of the city after the rain. She knew Alyssa overheard every word and would likely inquire on details but cut the inquisitive warlock off before she had a chance.

"Another time," Kat implored, "I promise. Just give me time."

[ @elaianna, @alyssa-ward ]

[ Relevant: @tristanasneak, @jocelyn-wellson, @myzariel, @nikkithorpe, @lovelydeadlysocialite, @quinn-varden ]

#ic #rp #Trades & Blades #AlyKat #Unit Eight

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sorrelchestnut · 4 years

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from the discard pile: dogs of war, sole & deacon

Going through some drafts and unearthed this bit, which I think was originally meant to be the closing scene of Jeepers Creepers before I decided the pacing was off. The lead-in to the scene is missing but they’re in Sole’s garage in Sanctuary, talking about X6, who is outside with MacCready. (Content warning for mentions of past war crimes, including torture and execution.)

"Don't worry, he can't hear us," Sole says, catching the line of his gaze. "This garage is soundproof - only way I got some goddamn peace on the weekends. His hearing might reach, on a quiet day, but he can only process one auditory input at a time. As long as you don't use his name, or any words that might trigger his attention, you're fine."

"You're sure of that?"

"I've read approximately six hundred pages of reports to that effect, so yes." And then she grins at him, easy and loose. "Also, Mac and I tested it. Extensively."

Deacon trembles to think what form that 'testing' might have taken. The two of them hold the current Railroad record for goading Carrington into a temper: one minute and forty-two seconds, and they weren't even talking directly to him. Deacon's own best time is barely under three.

"It's a miracle you're still alive."

"Nah. Not really." And her gaze wanders once more to the door, something like fondness tugging once more at the corner of her mouth.

Worry churns in his gut: not new, exactly, but… renewed, maybe. He trusts her judgement, in the general sense, but she's also possessive about her people, and that can lead to mistakes. "You like him, don't you?"

"First time I met him he took down an entire Brotherhood squad in less than five minutes. What's not to like?"

Deacon brushes that away with a gesture. "No, I mean you actually like him."

Most people fidget when they're thinking: their gazes roam, they bounce their knees, they bite their nails, something. (Dez rubs her fingers together, like she's holding a cigarette; Carrington folds his hands. Glory taps her belt buckle. Drums tugs at his sleeves.) Fixer, on the other hand, goes completely still. It's how he figured out that her first training was as a sniper, even if she tends towards more direct solutions these days. MacCready has it, too, as much as Deacon hates to admit it. When the chips are down, they both have that instinct to wait, and take a breath, before they decide.

He doesn't know about X6-88. As far as Deacon can tell, he's always absolutely still. Right up until the moment he's not.

"I understand him," Fixer says finally. "The best of the best, with a broad mandate and minimal oversight, answerable only to the highest authorities… Hell, I've been him. I don't think they really knew what they were doing, when they started making soldiers like him. They don't understand how they think."

The pronouns are a little confusing, but he gets what she's saying, since she can't use words like Institute or courser with X6 so close at hand. "They don't think they can."

She tips her head in acknowledgement. "The army didn't, either, back in my day. It's not really what soldiers are known for. But that's how I know."

"Know what, Fix?"

"How it happens." She's not really looking at him; her gaze is fixed broodingly into the middle distance, on some foreign land that's been dead so long Deacon can't even really imagine it. "You give someone that kind of latitude, they're going to use it. It's inevitable. Doesn't mean they kick up, doesn't mean they're not still following orders, just- It's a choice. Every day."

"And you think his choices-" The Institute, he tries to say without saying it; all of the synths he's dragged back to slavery, all of the people he's killed- "-mean you can trust him."

She grins at that, shooting him a sideways look that would probably seem almost flirtatious, if he didn't know that she'd put a blade through his throat before she'd let him touch her. "He has a standing kill order on Mac, you know."

Deacon almost spits out his cigarette. "What?"

"Yeah. Since day one. The, uh, big boss, really doesn't like me having outside ties." She shrugs, seemingly entirely unmoved by the prospect. "I'm not worried. He's more than half in love with him, you know."

More pronouns. "You mean MacCready, or…"

"Or." She smirks at his surprise. "Hey, just because you don't like my boy, doesn't mean it's a common affliction."

"I think you'll find you're the odd one out there, Fix."

But Deacon can't help but look through the door, out to the two figures in the garden beyond. At some point in the past couple minutes, MacCready successfully coaxed X6 away from his guard post and down into the garden next to him, kneeling with little regard for his shiny-black coat.�� Which would be startling enough, but as Deacon watches, MacCready knocks lazily against him with one shoulder, seemingly unconcerned with reprisal. X6, after a moment's deliberation, expressionlessly returns the gesture, seemingly no harder than a shrug but enough to send MacCready tumbling into the dirt.

There's a cry of offense, loud enough to be heard even through the door, and then MacCready is popping back up like some demented jack-in-the-box, trying and failing to fix a scowl on his smiling mouth. X6-88 waits patiently until his diatribe is done, then says something in reply, his face still fixed in that absolutely blank affect. Whatever it is tips the battle between smile and scowl, and MacCready loses it, his head thrown back in a silent shout of laughter.

The angle of X6's head changes very slightly, as if he's looking at the long, exposed line of MacCready's throat. And then he turns away, and goes back to his task.

"You see," Fixer says, very quietly, next to him.

"Holy shit," Deacon breathes. "How long have you-"

"Suspected? Early. First mission, practically. Known?" She shrugs again. "Baited him when we hit Med-Tek. Gave him a chance to make his move - lots of ghouls, no witnesses, MacCready was freaking out. All he had to do was step back, but he turned them into fucking paste. Never saw him move so fast. So."

He looks at her sidelong, trying to judge how she feels about it. "Never saw you as the type to share your toys, Fix."

A twitch of a smile. "You don't know everything about me, Deacon."

No. But he does know a lot. "So it's as simple as that, huh? He's hot for your boy, so you trust him?"

That earns him a cool frown. "I don't trust anybody. Except MacCready," she corrects judiciously. "And Preston. Sturges. Nick, most days. Everyone else?" She shrugs. "It's situational."

Deacon’s a very pointed absence from that list, but hell. It's not like she's wrong. They understand each other too well to be offended over a little thing like honesty at this late date. "But considering the situation-"

She makes an exasperated noise at the back of her throat. "Do I trust him not to kill my partner? Yeah. Do I know that I might still have to kill him someday? Also yeah. Do I think there's a chance I won't have to? Yeah. Yeah, I do." She scrubs a hand through her shaggy hair and pulls off her shades, giving him a clear look at the shadows underneath her eyes. There's a twang of guilt, faint but still there: she's been burning the candle at both ends, trying to keep this crazy train afloat. "Look, you think it's easy to make that kind of judgement call? You think it's all black and white? It's not. I've probably killed more people than anyone downstairs, and I think you know that."

Her voice is still soft, not a whisper but a low, easy murmur, designed not to draw attention from the sharp ears outside. And it takes everything Deacon has to keep his voice equally low when he says, "It's not really the same thing."

"Isn't it?" She meets his gaze head-on. "Whatever you've imagined I've done, let me tell you - it was ten times worse. I've tortured people for information; I've tortured people to send a message. I've killed civilians. I've killed prisoners. I've killed people who were starving, desperate, begging - sometimes, I killed people just because they got in my way. And you know what? You're still perfectly happy to make use of me. So maybe, just maybe, we're neither of us qualified to determine whether or not someone is irredeemable."

For a minute Deacon can't say anything, can't even think past the roaring in his ears. Sole just waits, with that same still patience she has in the field, the crack of the rifle shot still ringing in the air as she waits to see if her target's going to get up again. They never do, of course. Fixer's too thorough for that: two to the heart, one to the head, that's her style.

He wonders, for a long and aching moment, if she already knows. And in the moment that follows that one, he realizes it doesn't matter. He's going to tell her someday, anyway. Who else could possibly understand?

And in the moment after that, he meets her gaze, nods, and returns to business.

"We're ahead of schedule on the upper-level builds, but the labs are slower going. I think once your new friend starts getting her robots up and running we'll be able to shift more people away to the specialized work in the lower levels, and we'll be back on track for the deadline. Plumbing's been going well, but the wiring is still something of an issue…"

#fic #discard pile #fallout 4 #dogs of war

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odonism · 4 years

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tea is the sweet nectar of the gods. also, unrelated, but i’m starting to suspect that if i DO have adhd, i might not actually have auditory processing issues, i might just need subtitles to keep me engaged with what i’m watching because having something to read AND watch keeps my brain just stimulated enough to focus on a show or movie

#but also sometimes i really do not understand wtf they’re saying #so maybe it’s a mixture of both #also i love tea #speaks

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violetsmoak · 5 years

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Tabula Rasa [6/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20183281/chapters/48034471

Blanket Disclaimer:

Summary: Tim and Jason have known they are soulmates for years, though neither has said anything about it. Tim thinks Jason doesn’t know and is just trying to live with it. Jason thinks Tim knows but doesn’t care, which is fine with him, he thinks the soulmate thing is a crock anyway. But one night, a minor mishap forces them to confront the issue head-on, leading to a series of events no one could have predicted.

Rating: PG-13 (Rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #i’ll protect you #soulmark tattoo #bright anxiety #soulbond #a lie #hand holding

First Chapter

Author's Note(s): And now for a bit of Jason's perspective, before we return to chronological continuity...

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The minute Tim reveals to the Family that Jason is his soulmate—the minute Jason’s sudden burst of conscience has him confirming it—he knows he’s done. He’s lost all ability to pretend anything to the contrary, even when Tim gets his memories back, everyone will always know.

And he will always have to face the looks like the ones they’re giving him now.

As soon as there are no more civilians lurking outside the door, it’s as if a den of wolves has rounded on him.

“What the hell?” Steph demands. “He said you were dead!”

Ouch. Although…I guess he wasn’t lying.

“Congratulations, I guess,” Duke offers, not looking sure he’s expressing the correct sentiment. Then again, he often looks at a loss at figuring out the dynamics of the Family he’s suddenly found himself a part of.

Cass seems unsurprised about the whole thing which makes a certain amount of sense; she might not have known exactly what was going on between him and Tim, but she noticed something.

Bruce remains blank-faced.

Jason hates that he can’t read him or figure out what he thinks of all this. Is he angry? Disappointed? Plotting to lock Jason up again?

“If we might all calm down,” Alfred speaks up, ever the voice of reason, “this is a trying time for all of us. No doubt more so for Master Jason and Master Timothy.”

Though he seemed shocked at first, it seems he now simply accepts the fact, in the same way he simply accepts and adapts to every new Wayne Crisis.

“How long have you known?” Bruce asks, question void of inflection.

Jason meets his eyes in defiance. “A while.”

“And Tim?”

“Longer than me.”

“Why didn’t either of you tell us?” Dick cries, hurt lacing every syllable.

But Bruce steamrolls over that, too, asking the real questions. “Were you aware of this at the Tower?”

Jason clenches his fists and refuses to answer.

“The Tower?” Steph echoes. “Wait. You mean when he beat Tim within an inch of his life?” She levels a vicious glare at him, twin spots of angry red on her face as she jumps to her feet. “You tried to kill him! Your soulmate!”

“In case you don’t remember, I wasn’t firin’ on all cylinders back then,” Jason shoots back.

“That’s a shitty excuse and you know it!”

“And it wasn’t exactly the last time,” Dick adds, then winces like he didn’t mean to add accidental evidence against Jason in this impromptu Trial by Bat.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Jason snaps. “It’s not like I asked for any of this.” He pushes away from the wall that’s been holding him up since all this began. “Thanks for this little reunion, but I’m out of here. You all have your hands full with coma boy now.”

“You can’t just go!” Dick protests. “If he wakes up and you’re not here, how do you think he’ll react? You’re the only one he recognizes!”

“He doesn’t recognize me, he recognizes the ball and chain on my arm,” Jason retorts, brandishing his left wrist.

Far from emphasizing his point, everyone’s eyes rivet toward the mark, which hasn’t settled back on his wrist yet. It’s as if it acts as a reminder; everyone goes quiet and considering in their own way.

He hates that, that they think they may pass judgment on him, on this—on the fact fate fucked him and Tim over.

“Screw this,” he says and stalks from the room. He tries to ignore what looks like a flash of relief on Bruce’s face.

He doesn’t bother with the elevator, needs the physicality of stomping down sixteen flights of stairs to cool his anger. It doesn’t help; he gets outside the hospital and ends up just kind of standing there near the ambulance loading bay.

Not sure what he’s supposed to do now, he digs out his cigarettes and lights one, starts puffing away in agitation. He should leave, get out of here to do something useful. Screw playing nice for anyone’s sake—it would serve them all right if he did decide to put Gotham in his rear-view.

But he has to get back on task. Whoever this person is that’s decided to be his new archenemy, he’s bad for more than just Jason’s business. That’s why he has to stick around.

Not because of Tim’s recovery.

He ignores the voice in his head (which sounds annoyingly like Roy) that tells him denial isn’t a talent no matter how much effort he puts into it.

Jason has started his second cigarette when he hears a familiar pattern of footsteps approaching.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, I don’t want to hear it, even from you,” he warns.

“I am not here to say anything in particular to you,” Alfred replies serenely. “I would, however, ask if I could trouble you for a cigarette.”

Jason almost jolts at that and stares at the older man in astonishment. “What?”

“Curious. Nowhere in your files was it mentioned you had suffered recent auditory damages,” Alfred remarks mildly. When Jason still can’t summon a response, he adds, “It has been a rather trying two weeks, Master Jason and decently brewed cuppas are scarce in this place. Rather suspect, given how much funding we provide them with.”

As if in a trance, Jason slides a cigarette out of the pack and hands it to Alfred. The man takes it gingerly, the movement awkward but practiced, like it’s something he hasn’t done in a while. He bends to hold it to the flame that Jason automatically flicks to life and gives a few experimental inhalations.

For a while, they stand in silence. Jason spends a good deal of that sneaking glances at the butler as he handles his cigarette almost artfully between two fingers.

He can’t take it anymore. “Since when do you smoke?”

“You are not the only one in this family who had tumultuous teenaged years. I spent some time before I went into service frequenting pubs that made your American CBGB look like a primary school.”

Jason blinks. “Huh. And I’m suddenly re-evaluatin’ who’s the most secretive member of this gig.”

“Quite.”

There is another long spell of silence. At last, that gets to Jason too.

(And he knows Alfred’s doing it on purpose, damn it!)

“Look, Alf, it’s not that I…” he begins, then stops because he’s not sure how he wants to tackle this. “Soulmates or not, I’m the worst person to be around the kid right now. And I’ve got…stuff going on.”

And I might be the reason he got shot, to begin with; I don’t know if I can be around him knowing that.

“Understandable, Master Jason. One can only do what is within one’s power,” Alfred hums. “This is a difficult situation, and you need to take the time to process, however you do so. This family—Master Timothy himself—has always weathered emergencies just as dire as this. I have every confidence and faith they will again. At least this time, no one has died.”

And isn’t that a low fucking bar? ‘Whelp, you still have all your limbs and only slight mental trauma, but you’re alive, so good for you!’. This fucking family…

“Have you ever had occasion to visit Japan in your travels?”

The segue makes Jason turn his whole body to face the man again. “Uh. Once or twice?”

“Was it all for business or did you visit any cultural sites? I remember as a child you had a fascination with Matsumoto Castle.”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I got to go there, once. It was awesome.”

No need to tell him it was to meet with the head of the local Yakuza for Talia. Why does he want to know that, anyway?

Alfred hums again.

“The Japanese have a philosophy I have always found fascinating,” he says, using his finger to tap away a bit of ash. “They treat breakage and repair as an integral part of history and development, rather than something to hide or gloss over. They call it kintsugi, if I’m not mistaken.”

Jason frowns, the term tugging a memory. A late night in bed flicking through National Geographic. “Isn’t that when they fill the cracks in clay pots with gold or something?”

“There is a relation between the two,” Alfred allows, amused, and then becomes thoughtful once again. “The past may be imperfect, but it is not something to repress. It is there whether we want it to be or not. And it is how one accepts and changes in relation to that which shows one’s measure.” He takes another drag of the cigarette and frowns, shooting Jason a judgemental look. “I forgot how bloody awful these things are.”

And Jason can’t help snorting with laughter as Alfred flicks the butt away.

“Anyhow. I hoped to catch you before you left and say I wish to see you again soon. Sooner than a few months this time, though I understand you have a life of your own.” And there’s the Alfred guilt; Jason knew it was coming. “I did, however, hear a rumor that the Red Hood died in an explosion the other night. With him off the streets now, perhaps it will be more convenient to come around.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “I’m not fallin’ for it.”

“Falling for what?” Alfred replies, innocent. He turns. “We will see to Master Timothy, have no fear about that. I will send you updates as to his condition. It may take a while, but I remain confident he will improve. Good day, Master Jason.”

And then he heads back into the hospital.

Jason glares at his back, telling himself he will not let that sway him. He’s too old to let well-meaning manipulations sway him. And yet…

Tim had seemed so…frail. Vulnerable. Terrified. And that had gone away when Jason was there.

The expression is in such contrast to the other he has in his head. The blank resignation and acceptance when Jason all but told him he wished he didn’t exist.

Like he was fucking expecting it.

He smokes two more cigarettes before swearing and turning back to the hospital. This time he takes the elevator.

When he re-enters Tim’s room, everyone looks up in surprise at his return. Except Alfred, because the man is a sneaky fucker, and Jason wonders if Tim doesn’t have more in common with him than with Bruce. He refuses to meet anyone’s gaze, though, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets.

“I might be a jerk, but I don’t want to make the kid hemorrhage from the stress of me not bein’ here,” he grumbles. “So I’ll stick around until he’s, I dunno, less breakable or something.”

He can almost hear Dick’s smile. “Thanks, Little Wing. Knew we could count on you.”

“Bullshit you did.”

“Master Jason.”

He sighs and sidles into an empty chair, one closest to the door, farthest from Bruce, and with a good vantage point of Tim.

This is gonna suck.

“So,” Dick leans against the wall next to Jason, movement slow and deliberate. There’s a slight, manic edge to his voice. “Soulmates, huh?”

“I swear to god, Grayson, if you keep bringin’ it up, I’m out of here.”

“Spoilsport.”

But mercifully, he leaves it alone. For today.

⁂

To say that Jason’s world has completely uprooted itself within the course of weeks would be an understatement.

At first, he expected everyone to leave him alone—his presence tolerated only because of the technicality of him being Tim’s soulmate. But the day after Bruce’s birthday and the visit from Gillian Sato, Dick pulls him to one side while he’s getting coffee and hands him a folder. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Jason flips it open and blinks at the contents. Pages and pages of what looks like a whole new identity. “‘Todd Jacob Kane’—what the hell is this?”

“Well, we had to explain how you’re connected to the Family if Tim or anyone asks. So now you’re a distant cousin on Bruce’s mom’s side of the family. Explains the hair, too.”

He reaches out to tug at said hair, but Jason ducks and snarls at him, “Why the fuck do you have to explain anything?”

“That social worker will come back. And now she and all the doctors know you’re Tim’s soulmate, so you can’t be dead or unaccounted for. At some point, other people will ask, too.”

“You’re talkin’ like I’m gonna be around once his head’s back on straight.”

“That could take a while, Jay,” Dick says with uncharacteristic solemnity “Maybe even longer if the damage is worse than we think. We’re just trying to prepare for every eventuality. Besides—don’t you want to be alive again? In the legal sense, I mean.”

“Not if it means I gotta spend more time with you losers, or like, pay taxes or something.” He leafs through the documents, eyebrows raising. “Shit. Barbie went all out, didn’t she?”

GED, vaccinations records, passport, social security number, military records (ex-army medic, two tours of duty in Manbij—hell, she was paying attention, wasn’t she?) and—

“What the hell is this? Formal PTSD diagnoses?!”

“Can you think of a convincing argument where those are wrong?”

Jason grumbles in response, because, no, he can’t.

“Leslie may have had some input, based on everything she knows about you and us.”

“And what about this, huh? Why do I have a juvy record?”

“You can’t be too clean or anyone looking into you would know there’s something up. Besides, you already had a juvy record, it’s not like it’s a change. And this segues well into your military career.”

“Where I racked up a dishonorable discharge, looks like.”

“Did you look at the reason for it?”

Jason glances through the document, and a bit of the tension clears. “Okay. Yeah, that would track.”

“This way you’ve got both a criminal record and a service record. If you’re intending to keep straddling the line of good guy and bad guy, you’ve got a background to build on for either.”

Jason considers this as he looks back down to the files, and whistles. “Damn, Barbie.”

“My wife’s a genius.”

“Well, one of you has to be.”

“You’re just jealous.”

That you somehow ended up soulmates with two of the most gorgeous and capable women on the planet? Who wouldn’t be? I mean, if I gave a shit about soulmates.

The thought rubs him wrong for some reason, and he thinks back on Tim. The kid isn’t really the worst option in the world. He can sort of see if he were a different person—the kind that’s swept up in the soulmate nonsense—how the younger man could be appealing. His sarcasm alone might have made them friends in another life.

Dick must notice something in his expression because his own softens, and he says, “Tim will be okay, you know.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You sure? Because you looked kind of—”

“I’m fine. It’s not something I’m losing sleep over.” He tries to deflect. “And you’re takin’ this all suspiciously well, considering you were freakin’ out about it yesterday.”

“Well, I had time to process. And I think it makes sense.”

“…Fuckin’ excuse me?”

“Maybe not on the surface,” Dick hurries to add, “But the thing is, you and Tim, you’re both…” He hesitates, looking for the word.

“Replacements?”

“Damaged.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “What.”

“Well, you are. For different reasons. But maybe your damages complement each other or something?”

“That is the stupidest thing you have ever said to me,” Jason informs him. “And you once asked me why they put the paper on the onions so tight.”

He was thirteen, and it was the first and last time he ever attempted to cook anything within the same vicinity as Dick Grayson.

⁂

Tim is in and out of consciousness, and barely even Tim for the first month or so. It doesn’t stop him from somehow using his latent powers of manipulation to get Jason to agree to stick around even longer—or worse, visit the manor.

(And yes, he’s aware that at the moment Tim is, perhaps for the first time in his life, not even capable of manipulation. But how else is he supposed to explain the way he folds whenever the kid turns that sad, panicked gaze on him?)

It’s a pain for more reasons than his own discomfort, because the thing is, he wasn’t actually lying to Tim when he said he had work.

Just because Penguin’s a slimy bastard doesn’t mean he isn’t smart. Jason’s taken his words to heart in the time that he’s been lying low. He scoped out the Hungry Ghost, the club that fronts a modern-day bordello and chosen it as his information-gathering hub. It took a bit of reconnaissance and conveniently arranging for the current bouncer-slash-barback to skip town, and he had a gig lined up.

He’d put on a convincing show of hesitating at the entrance. He’d awkwardly shuffled a bit and mentioned to the owner, Madam Salome, that he heard they hired without caring too much about past records.

She’s a hard-mouthed woman, whipcord thin and angular, and with a cold look he’s seen before on a lot of the girls walking the streets. She grills him about why he was in juvy (carjacking—not a lie) and why he got discharged from the army (killed a man for raping a young girl; also not technically a lie) and whether he has any kind of issue with sex work (“No ma’am, world’s oldest trade. Should be regulated.” Which is also something he believes).

Then she gives him a hard look like she can tell he’s lying and hires him anyway.

So now he’s ready for his long-con of surveillance, which means he can’t be spending every free moment with Tim.

Right?

Yet, against his inclination and will, he finds himself at the manor every evening, helping with physiotherapy or sitting by Tim’s bed with his nose buried in a book.

(Or trying to have his nose buried in a book, it’s sort of hard when he’s being watched by Tim’s unwavering gaze. Strange how he’s good at that even with one eye still covered with a bandage.)

He’s uncomfortable with how attached the kid has gotten to him in such a short time, all because of his soulmark; it feels false since Tim currently has no memories of everything Jason has done to him.

A niggling voice in his head that sounds like Kori this time reminds him that Tim seemed open to the idea before.

(He shrugs that off.)

It’s a while before he gets over the guilty pit in his stomach whenever he walks into a room and Tim’s face lights up to see him. The kid might not be talking yet, but he’s ridiculously expressive. Jason wonders how he survived in the boardroom with such an open face, before he remembers that before, Tim knew how to hide more.

He always keeps space between the two, a careful distance unless he needs to help Tim calm down or with physio exercises; the only time he gets close to Tim of his own volition is when the kid is asleep. Even then it’s just to study him and try to figure out why the hell the universe thought they’d be a good match.

Sometimes he’s downright resentful of him.

Inwardly, he rails that it’s Tim’s fault they’re in this situation. If he hadn’t been there that night, if he’d not had some stupid meltdown on television, he wouldn’t have been in Crime Alley. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near Jason and wouldn’t be brain damaged now.

(You don’t know that, Kori’s voice in his head reminds him. He throws himself off buildings and into fights every night. He could easily have gotten hurt some other way.)

This makes him feel like an ass for thinking and he’ll immediately seek out Dick or Damian because clearly, he has feelings that need to be exorcised. Right now he can’t get out on the streets to do it, so the Cave will have to suffice.

He prefers Damian, to be honest. The kid is doing his damnedest to act as if nothing has changed, which Jason needs right now.

“I don’t know what everyone is so worried about,” the brat dismisses one day as Dick watches him and Jason spar. Jason wishes he could say he’s taking it easy on the kid, but they’re pretty evenly matched. “Drake has survived his ordeal and will recover. He always does.”

“But he might not this time.”

“Pennyworth is seeing to his needs, there’s no need for us to continue deviating from our usual routines.”

“You’re assuming he will get all his memories back,” Dick cautions, crossing his arms and frowning as Jason ducks the swing of a bokken. Dick won’t let either of them use real swords against each other since they might fall back on League habits. “He might not, Little D. Then what will you do?”

Jason grits his teeth, sensing that the question is directed to him, too. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s a sentiment he’s been thinking over more and more the longer Tim remains functionally amnesiac.

“I wouldn’t care one way or the other,” Damian insists, parrying Jason’s next attack. “The longer he takes simply makes it easier for me to take my rightful place as Father’s true heir.”

“That’s bull. If he never goes back to the way he was before, that means everything that’s made you jealous of him goes away too. You lose your rival—the one person you’ve been measuring yourself against since you showed up.”

Damian grunts, either in effort or derision, Jason can’t tell, since he unleashes a flurry of attacks that forces him to go back on the defensive.

“Take away the parts of Tim you pretend to hate, and all you have left is a brother who needs you.”

“Tt.” Damian jumps back from Jason one last time and throws down his weapon. “I yield. I refuse to listen to this nonsense any longer.”

“Hey! No quittin’!” Jason yells at his back as he disappears, and glares over at Dick. “Thanks a lot, asshole. I was just startin’ to work up a sweat before you started with your Dr. Phil crap.”

“I’m only trying to get him to understand the seriousness of all this,” Dick tells him. “He’s seen all of us get injured and come back from things before. Hell, he’s died and come back. I worry he’s starting to believe it’s a given when it’s…really not.”

“Kid grew up in the League of Assassins,” Jason reminds him. “Trust me, he understands the futility of things.”

“And do you?”

Jason narrows his eyes. “What now?”

“You’ve also been acting like this is all temporary. Like Tim’s just going to bounce back,” Dick says, crossing his arms tight against his chest like he’s trying to comfort himself. “But there’s a real chance he doesn’t. I mean, come on, Jason, look at what happened to you. You’ve had brain damage before. It took a dip in a Lazarus Pit to fix that.”

“It’s different,” Jason snaps. “I had my head caved in in about nine different places. Doc Thompkins already said the kid’s injury was clean. He’ll be back to chuggin’ energy drinks and playin’ with his gadgets in no time and I can get back to my life.”

“You mean the life that literally burnt down around you?”

Jason snarls and throws up his hands. “Know what? Bat brat had the right idea. I’m not listenin’ to you ramble anymore.”

“It’s okay to worry about him, you know!” Dick yells at his back as Jason climbs the stairs back to the manor proper.

And that is why I prefer when it’s only Damian. Dick always takes advantage and tries to go for the heart-to-heart. Though it could be worse. It could be B.

For the most part, Bruce has been keeping out of Jason’s way when he’s at the manor, which he is simultaneously relieved at and frustrated by. Relieved because he doesn’t want to have that conversation, the one where Bruce judges him and finds him unworthy of being Tim’s soulmate.

(Jason doesn’t want to be his soulmate, but Bruce finding him unworthy is one of those anxieties leftover from his childhood.)

Frustrated, because one of the few good things about him and Bruce has always been that they can be bluntly honest with one another. It’s a no holds barred, going-for-the-throat kind of honesty, that cuts through the shit and straight to the core.

(Except perhaps the months leading up to Jason’s death, and his return to Gotham when he wanted to be a little dramatic.)

He wishes they could just fight about it and get it over with.

⁂

It is several weeks before Tim can sit up on his own; a month spent in bed, needing help to get showered and redressed. Jason thankfully doesn’t have to do any of that stuff. Alfred and Dick appear to be falling over themselves to do that, though the long-suffering expression on Tim’s face whenever he needs help amuses Jason.

At least that’s the same; Tim never liked having to ask for or get help. Jason knew that even without being around him often.

From the scowls he tries to hide from everyone, he dislikes the various therapies he has to endure, too.

Jason does the bare minimum of what the family wants. He stays with Tim, so he doesn’t freak out, holds his hand when he needs to, puts up with Bruce somehow looming from an entirely different wing of the manor, and leaves with lots of leftovers from Alfred.

But that’s it.

Jason has no intention of getting attached or encouraging the universe’s practical joke; as soon as Tim remembers (and he will fucking remember, Dick, so stop jinxing it) he’s gone.

He doesn’t have rambling conversations with Tim the way Steph does; she isn’t glaring at Jason as much anymore, but she pretends like he’s a statue or wallpaper on the rare occasion they pass in the hallways.

(He’s sure at some point that will end since they both have tempers and are raring for a fight.)

Cass just looks between the two of them like she finds them amusing or something, which a kind of insulting.

It’s lucky they see little of each other that first month. Steph shows up during the day after her classes or whatever it is she does when she’s not in costume and leaves for patrol before Jason arrives. Whenever Jason gets there and learns that she hasn’t left yet, he ducks into the kitchen to sit with Alfred for a while.

The old butler is the only one who appreciates how uncomfortable—how angry—the whole soulmate issue is making Jason and doesn’t make him feel guilty about it. He also appears to sense how restless Jason has been since benching himself.

Undercover work has never been his favorite thing, and with this job, he surprisingly has more nights off than on. It’s disquieting, leaving him with too much time on his hands to ruminate about his shadow rival or dwell on the situation with Tim.

“Why not assume a different mantle whenever the need arises to go out?” Alfred suggests one afternoon as he kneads the dough for his homemade egg pasta. “I don’t pretend to approve of the nighttime doings of anyone in this family, but a lifetime habit is difficult to break even in a few weeks.”

“Don’t you think I considered that? But it’d kind of be a give away if a new mask shows up on the streets so soon after Red Hood bites it,” Jason replies. He holds out the bag of flour when Alfred gestures for it.

“Are you telling me that in the vast collection of gear in the basement, you cannot find something that is storeyed and recognizable?”

“Not unless Bruce still has the Wingman suit,” Jason snorts.

Alfred says nothing, merely raising his eyebrow as he continues to add a few fingerfuls of flour to the dough.

“Are you kiddin’? I thought he tossed that and the Redwing out after Damian…?”

Alfred’s hands still for a moment, his eyes closing as he no doubt remembers that horrible time. Then, with small effort, he shakes it off and replies, “I fear Master Bruce was not in the mindset to do much of anything constructive during that time. The suits went into storage.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt B wants me wearin’ anything of his right now. In case you haven’t noticed the waves of disapproval driftin’ up through the floor, I’m not his favorite person right now. He won’t want me touchin’ his suit.”

“Your suit, Master Jason. It was always meant to be yours when you were ready for it. Prior to the…incident…with Master Damian, it was to be an olive branch. A means of returning to the fold should you ever decide the need for Red Hood had passed.”

Jason’s chest tightens for a moment and he’s unsure what to say to that at first. He’d known when Bruce came to him that time that it was an olive branch, a second chance—but he’d assumed it was a temporary thing. An ace in the hole against Talia and Leviathan.

And of course, the bastard would never just come out and say that.

Jason’s not emotionally equipped to unpack yet another one of Bruce’s backhanded attempts at parenting. Instead, he focusses on Alfred’s last words.

“This is Gotham, Alf. There will never not be a need for Red Hood, I don’t care what Bruce thinks.”

“Perhaps. But then, I’m of the opinion you need not choose between the two. A mask is not a man, Master Jason. It is a symbol. How one uses that symbol makes the man.”

They sit in silence for several minutes, Alfred working and Jason mulling it over. At last, he sighs and smirks at the old butler. “You know, for someone who disapproves, you have a lot of opinions.”

“At my age, I’m allowed, Master Jason. Now go set the table for four.”

“Four? Is B stayin’ tonight?”

If he is, I’m not.

“No. But Miss Cassandra will be. She returns to Hong Kong tomorrow to tie up a few loose ends before returning here. I insisted that she have a decent meal and sleep before heading to the airport in the morning.”

“And…uh…Blondie?”

“I heard a certain Mrs. Grayson requires her talents this evening.”

⁂

And so Jason finds himself back to patrolling several nights a week, once more striking fear into the hearts of criminals.

Albeit behind a different mask than he’s used to.

There are provisos, of course, as Batman informed him in his usual detached way down in the cave. No guns, no lethal force and he can’t spend all of his time in Crime Alley.

“It would be too much of a coincidence given Red Hood’s demise.”

“Bullshit!” Jason had argued. “No one’s patrollin’ that part of town anymore. And I’m pretty sure people have noticed Red Robin ain’t even pokin’ his nose in either.”

“Red Robin has made appearances along his usual routes,” Batman dismissed.

“What? How?”

“Black Bat has agreed to take on the mantle every week or so. She is closest to Tim’s height and weight. We can’t have anyone connect Tim’s injury and Red Robin’s disappearance.”

“But what about—?”

“Signal has been monitoring the East End. He is as invested in the well-being of neighborhoods as you are. I have every confidence he can handle it during your absence.”

“Must be nice to have your confidence. Wonder what that’s like?”

“If you didn’t have my confidence, you would not be getting this suit,” Batman replied shortly and turned back to the computer. “If you continue your investigation into the changes in Gotham’s underworld, do so in a way that doesn’t connect Wingman to Red Hood.”

Damn it, even when he’s trying to make a gesture, he’s still an ass about it.

“Nah, I figured I’d go shout it from the rooftops,” Jason shot back sarcastically and stalked away before he could get into an actual fight with the man. “Next thing, he’s gonna tell me not to say anything to Tim…”

Which, obviously? They decided early on not to tell him anything Bat-related while he’s recovering.

The problem is, Tim doesn’t seem any closer to remembering anything.

Every week that passes, even after the surprising instance of Tim trying to sing Happy Birthday to Dick (which, okay, Jason was also relieved at that, but only because he’s been watching how frustrated Tim’s been with his music therapy) he shows no sign of knowing anything about Tim Drake or Red Robin or any of it.

It’s a cause for concern, and not only because of Mission related reasons.

Gillian Sato keeps visiting the manor every week.

Jason might not be on great terms with Tim—might be awkward as hell around him—but he’s even less so with her. Alfred texts him when she comes over, and Jason does his best to get to the manor as soon as he can. He’s more effective at looming over her on these ‘visits’ than Dick is. And she can’t object to his presence, even when he interrupts her well-meaning-but-leading questions. The ambiguous kind, where Tim’s current yes-no answers might land him in a sea of trouble.

“You don’t trust social workers, do you, Mr. Kane?” she asks him one day when he interrupts every question she asks, wanting to qualify statements or elaboration to an almost pedantic degree.

Tim seems to have fallen asleep again—pale and exhausted from darting his eyes between Jason and Sato’s less-than-veiled disagreement. Across the room, sitting cross-legged and pretending to be absorbed in a video game, Damian looks like he’s ready to jump into action if need be.

“Lady, there ain’t no one in this house you people haven’t screwed over.”

“But not you,” she pries, eyes keen. “According to your record, family took you in. Your cousins, was it? Kate Kane and her father?”

(He’s still not sure how Barbara got Batwoman to sign off on that; Kate never really liked him.)

“Yeah, but not before I lived on the streets a few months. And I don’t regret the experience one bit since it meant I didn’t get fucked over by the system.”

“That isn’t in your file.”

“Last time I checked, they seal juvenile records,” Damian speaks up, tone sharp. “Is there a reason you’re looking into him when you’re assigned to Drake’s case? Or so you allege.”

“I hardly see how it’s your concern,” she tells the boy. “Although on that note, is there a reason you refer to your brother by his last name? Some lingering resentments, perhaps, that gave way to violence?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, a delicate angry flush that’s almost imperceptible in his dark cheeks. “If you believe I intend to share any information with you, you presume your self-importance to be above his legal rights to privacy. I can assure you, as much as he irks me, Drake is far above you in the status quo.”

Huh. Has the bat brat ever said anything nice about Tim?

Damian’s implication would insult most people, but the woman doesn’t even blink. “If these are the manners Mr. Wayne instills in his children, it seems my office’s concerns are valid.”

“Manners are not requisite indicators of good parental care,” Damian retorts. “But again, I am not the subject of your inquiry, am I?”

They stare at each other a beat before Sato looks away with a sniff. “I just want to have all the facts.”

Jason narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest, showing off his mark which is already reacting to his proximity to Tim. It’s a less than subtle reminder her facts are irrelevant to him. He feels no guilt doing so since the damned mark’s caused him nothing but trouble so far. He should at least be able to use it to keep the kid from being hounded by social workers with axes to grind.

It has the desired effect. She purses her lips and scribbles something on her tablet with a stylus.

It would surprise him if whatever she writes is still there when she gets home; Babs can be vindictive even from a distance.

There’s a subtle clearing of the throat, and everyone glances over at Alfred.

“I fear it is getting late, and Master Timothy needs his rest,” he said. “If you would be so kind, Ms. Sato, I will escort you to your broom—ahem. Apologies. Your car.”

Jason and Damian both choke in surprise as Alfred gestures for her to follow him, even as Sato continues to appear unimpressed. Once they’re gone, they exchange looks.

“Did Alfred just break British-butler protocol and insult a guest?”

“Given the past few weeks, it does not surprise me he is beginning to crack,” Damian notes, frowning at Sato’s back as she leaves. “I don’t like her.”

“You don’t like anyone, that’s not unusual. But nah, I don’t think anyone likes her.”

It’s like she’s being an asshole on purpose.

Damian folds his arms. “No. This woman is…she gives me an unpleasant feeling.”

“Aw, look at you all protective,” Jason teases, just resisting the urge to ruffle Damian’s hair. He enjoys having two hands, even if one of them has a soulmark emblazoned on it that complicates his life. “And here I thought you and Timbers didn’t get along.”

“Tt.” Damian looks away.

Jason goes back to sit beside Tim, picking up his book as he does so.

“This is,” Damian begins after a long pause, then stops, looking angry, though at what is anyone’s guess. At last, he clenches his fists and says, “This fate is…unworthy. For him.”

He doesn’t meet Jason’s gaze as he stalks off.

“Huh,” Jason says out loud, watching him. “See, now you have to get better, so you can give him a hard time for being a secret sap.”

Where he’s been feigning sleep for the past ten minutes, Tim snorts.

⁂⁂⁂

To Be Continued

This blog isn’t my primary, so my reblogs don’t show up very well. As such, please reblog the fic, otherwise not a lot of people are going to see it :)

<3 Violet

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grison-in-space · 6 years

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that big “what the fuck is up with Matt Murdock’s senses” post I keep threatening to make

For context, my day job involves studying animal communication, where I am a PhD student in evolution/animal behavior. I don't work on organisms that use non-standard sensory modalities directly, but I'm very familiar with the adaptations that electroceptive and echolocatory systems (mostly in bats, that latter one) generally require.

I also spend an awful lot of time watching my cat Dent, who has been blind probably from birth and definitely since he was about ten weeks old. (We're not entirely sure whether he can see light or movement, and he definitely can't see anything else.) Dent therefore has access to certain sensory modalities that are more sensitive than vision (cats can hear much higher into the ultrasonic than humans and have a wider range of olfactory sensitivities) without actually having vision to rely on, and thinking about what it is that specific sensory modalities actually bring to the table in terms of function.

What I am not is a blind person, nor have I lived or worked closely with someone who is. This is therefore going to be a discussion that focuses pretty heavily on "okay, let's assume Matty really does have ears like a bat--how does that constrain what he can and cannot do?" and less on the actual functional issues for someone who is, you know, a blind human--although if folks have comments on that, I would absolutely fucking love to hear them.

TL, DR: radar isn't fucking magic, and neither is echolocation. And physics still matters when we get down into sensation, more than you might think.

One of the things you have to understand when you're trying to study sensation and perception is that different sensory modalities--sight, touch, hearing, proprioception/balance, echolocation, etc--are good for different things. We tend to intuitively understand this in humans, but when reading experiences of characters with very different sensory toolboxes I often find that people simply... assume that the "extra-sensitive" senses can more or less perfectly compensate for the loss of vision.

The thing is, different sensory modalities are good for different things. That's why different groups of animals develop specialties in different modalities in the way they do. Some of what evolution can do is constrained by phylogenetic history--mammals are always going to have a leg up on birds when it comes to hearing in high frequencies, for example, because of a quirk of the development of the mammalian jaw--but a lot comes down to the interaction between the world around a particular animal and the needs and ecological niche that the animal takes up. Species generally specialize and hone the sensory systems that they have available which are useful to the needs of the animal in question.

What I mean by this is that you have to understand that different sensory systems are really good at different things, and sometimes you need different levels of resolution for different tasks. You can think of sensory systems as having two kinds of resolution: temporal and spatial. Vision has, generally speaking, pretty fine temporal resolution--you get a continuous "picture" of things around you and where they are at any given time. Your spatial resolution, as anyone who wears glasses (me included!) can tell you, varies based on your individual eyes and level of focus.

There's one final distinction that is important to bring up with respect to choosing sensory modalities, and that is active versus passive sensation. You can define this by asking yourself: do you have to do anything to work this sense and pick up stimuli from the environment around you? If yes, we're active; if not, we're passive. Humans don't really have any equivalent active sensory modalities with the possible exception of touch, but because Matt is almost always depicted as having access to at least one (echolocation, "radar"), I'm going to talk a little bit about those here, too.

Why does resolution matter?

Well, when we talk about modalities compensating for each other as an individual navigates the world, resolution is what lets us adapt senses to do each other's jobs. Fine resolution isn't always the most useful range for a given sense, either: olfaction has very coarse temporal resolution and moderate spatial resolution in most species, and that means that you can use it to tell where things have been even if the thing creating the signal is no longer there. Echolocation has perhaps the finest possible temporal resolution in that it is not a continuous signal--more on that in a minute--and very, very fine spatial resolution, but only for the instant of a given vocalization. Vision has very tight temporal resolution and very tight spatial resolution, depending on the level of focus a given person has.

What's the deal with active versus passive sensation?

For one thing, that means that Matt should not be able to use either echolocation or "radar" unless he's actually producing some kind of signal. I keep putting "radar" in quotes because it's not used by any known biological system; the closest analogue is probably electroception, but electroception is prettyk much exclusively used and developed by aquatic or semi-aquatic animals and uses different ranges of electromagnetic waves to most human-built radar systems. That means that echolocation doesn't produce continuous information the same way that passive sensory systems (like vision!) do, which means that Matt has to string together a series of disconnected "impressions" of where things are in space and time to make a "picture" of the world around him, at least with respect to that sense.

Basically, the way these sensory systems work is that you produce a signal and you "listen" to the response patterns. This means that if you aren't producing that signal, you don't get anything. This is interesting and important in the context of Daredevil because Matt very specifically does not produce any vocalizations or noises that could be used for echolocation in the human range, and it's even less likely that he's continously emitting weak electric charges into his environment--the air just isn't a good enough conductor to give him any real distance.

So if he's doing this, he's doing it at either very high pitches, outside the usual human auditory range, or else at very low pitches--and high is much more likely. High-frequency vocalizations decay faster over space, which is why they don't carry well. Because of this, and because the pattern of reverberation and decay of the sound is what you're using to construct the idea of shape with echolocation, all known echolocating species use very high-frequency, very loud vocalizations to create pulses of sound that will decay in ways that are sensitive to the shape of whatever they're bouncing off of.

Personally, I like to imagine Matt squeaking at very high pitches like a real bat might, mostly because I think it's funny. This is particularly amusing because in many social species that rely very heavily on echolocation or electroception, individuals produce a signal that is unique to them within the local group--so it's the equivalent of Matt wandering around yelling MATT MATT MATT MATT whenever he wants to get a good sense of its position and shape without having to actually, you know, touch it. (This may or may not be a good way for Stick and Matt to get a sense for where each other are at a distance--if they're managing to make a super high-pitched vocalization, it probably doesn't carry too well. On the other hand, if they're fighting something as a team, as we see both of them doing, the odds are good that each is listening to the information that the other is getting if one or both is using whatever this sensory system is. )

If I'm going to take a more realistic tack on the whole thing, I'd guess he's probably vocalizing through his nose, which is pretty common in both human vocalizations (you don't need your mouth to be open to say nnnnn or mmmm, because those sounds are produced via reverberations through the nasal cavity) and also in many ultrasonic vocalizations specifically (for example, the ultrasonic communication that rodents often engage in).

(Humans who say they can use echolocation in real life rely on clicks and taps, which is why I think it's particularly interesting that Matt is consistently shown using his long cane a few inches above the ground. I don't think he ever uses it to tap the ground in the show, and he certainly isn't making a loud click noise with it. Both clicks and taps can work for echolocation because these are wide-frequency noises, so you still have the decay patterns of the higher frequencies to work off of if you can filter through the lower-frequency stuff muddying the waters. It's not very sophisticated and will only give you a comparatively broad sense of where things are, but it's certainly better than nothing. But whatever Matt is using, he's specifically not using that to navigate his world.

A friend who uses a long cane suggested dryly that this might be an attempt to avoid the common peril of getting one's cane stuck in a pothole and winding up taking your cane to the balls or the kidneys, which... given the general lack of maintenance of Hell's Kitchen in other venues of the show, I suspect this is a peril Matt has been negotiating for some time.)

So what is Matt likely to use?

Honestly, I'm pretty sure that Matt's most important sense day-to-day isn't echolocation. It's his proprioception--his sense of where he is in the world, his spatial memory and his sense of balance. I heavily suspect that he has an incredibly good spatial sense and ability to process spatial information, and I notice that his combat style is heavily geared towards blocking his opponents into a space and hitting them until they go down. (Matt spends a lot of time using space to his advantage in combat--when he's not stalking an opponent and bringing them down by surprise, he's either constantly blocking them in and grappling close in or he's using a narrow confine like a hallway or an alley to constrain his opponent's ability to move quickly. Because the ability to echolocate does require him to produce a sound and because I'm not aware of any way to produce sufficiently high-pitched sounds that doesn't involve forcing air through the larynx at some level, I would guess that he's actually primarily relying on passive listening to pick up cues about what is going on in his environment in the middle of combat. I'd gamble he's most likely to quickly use his active sense (whatever it is) to make a rough "sketch" of what's going on around him in moments of relative quiet, when he's not moving too quickly to control his breathing.

I like constraint in my headcanons, because it lets me plumb the unexpected boundaries of abilities, perceptions, and creates avenues for conflict and unexpected humor; if you don't--and the writers of Daredevil in all forms certainly don't seem to be particularly careful about this--seriously, by all means ignore me or pick out whatever you like and leave the rest. But hey, I had fun putting this fucker together.

This post is crossposted at pillowfort and dreamwidth.

#gris original #daredevil #matt murdock #self-indulgent as shit

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droneseco · 3 years

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Creative Soundstage V2: Fantastic Budget Soundbar With One Killer Feature

Creative Stage V2

9.00 / 10

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