"Gift Thoughts"
by ASWF
Dedicated to Sarah, Gillian, Amanda and zzhz for making a potentially torturous year into a downright enjoyable one.
Rating: G
Summary: Tim's thought process as he puzzles over what to get his 'big brother' Dick for Christmas.
Timeline: Fits in anywhere between Tim's becoming Robin and Dick's engagement with Barbara.
Disclaimer: Characters not mine, everything else is.
Warning: As this is written for my friends, the content probably wouldn't mean anything to you, and that would make this story very boring.
Constructive criticism and reviews appreciated.
Tim sat quietly at his desk, one hand supporting his tilted head. The other hand scribbled and crossed out repeatedly on a piece of paper mounted on a stack of assorted books, papers and stationery. A dull orange lamp kept him company as he listened to his own monologue.
Putting down his favored blue mechanical pencil, he brooded over the task at hand. Ideas for a solution came easily, but each was shot down equally fast by the merciless bazookas of reality and logic. Christmas was coming, and it was proving to be a challenge to get a good idea of a present for one Dick Grayson.
It was a pain alright, but the motivation behind the thought put into finding a good present was not so much a Christmas obligation, but rather a chance to thank Dick for being a good friend who counted. Tim was one of those who preferred to keep their social circle small and tight, meaning he had a few friends whom he trusted greatly.
"Alright, Drake, back to work. Go through your reasoning," He imagined Batman's Voice saying it to give himself better focus. As his eyes flicked back to the piece of paper, his incessant fidgeting stopped. He looked at the first list on the paper, entitled "Stuff Dick Likes".
1. Pizza
2. A good night's sleep
3. Oracle
4. Annoying Batman
5. A good laugh (preferably at me)
6. Poetic justice
7. his friends (does this count as stuff?)
"Of these, I can give him pizza, a good night's sleep, a good laugh and poetic justice." He crossed out the irrelevant items, and surveyed the remains of the list forlornly.
"Okay...he already has more than enough pizza," he canceled out "Pizza" for the second time. "A good night's sleep would mean that he would have to lay off his Bludhaven nightly rounds, and then he'd get insomnia from not going on his nightly rounds."
He briefly considered patrolling Bludhaven in place of Dick, but any idiot would know that Nightwing's almost Bat-like attitude to his perceived responsibilities would never allow another to patrol Bludhaven unless Nightwing himself was out for the count. And more often than not even that didn't stop him from trying to return to the rooftops.
Shaking his head at the thought, he frowned at the last item. Poetic justice...won't work, for the same reasons that doomed the notion of giving Dick a day, erm, night off his Nightwing duties. There goes his first list of ideas. He had a second list, "Stuff Dick Wants", which was a total disaster.
He had no idea how to make Barbara hook up with Dick and even less idea how to make Bruce say "I'm proud of you" sincerely and spontaneously to Dick. He had considered changing the list to "Stuff Dick Would Like", but had to spend two hours second-guessing his choices. A new video game? A new music album? He even briefly considered new clothes, but had to admit to himself that he was never, and never will be, someone good in that department. Anyway, whatever he could afford to buy Dick, Dick could afford it himself.
Wonderful, new conclusion. Get him something he CAN'T buy. Hmm, things he CAN'T buy. Either something that doesn't exist or isn't for sale. Time to look at his third list, entitled "Stuff Dick Needs".
He smirked as "A Life" popped up in his head, but quickly sobered as he reminded himself of the task at hand. 'Need' was a tough category. He could go scientific and list down things like "Food", "Water" and "Oxygen"; but that'd be just plain stupid...
No, seriously, something that no one can lead a life without. He smacked his forehead at the cryptic conclusion, then realized the folly of this list. He'd been thinking objectively, rationally, emotionless-ly, when it really is about the heart. The point of the whole thing was to express gratitude, express friendship, whatever that thing on his mind is called.
That's the key word. Express. Easier said than done. Now on a promising track, he chewed with grim amusement on a piece of gum as he put his brains to work. Perhaps he could use his talents. He often sketched.
"And draw what?" he asked himself irritably. Now sulking, he reflected that his singing 'talent' is reserved for comedy only, so it would hardly do to dedicate him a song. Not that he'd survive the lifelong giggles that were sure to plague him if he ever did it. What else do people do to express themselves?
"I get it. I'll write." He laughed mirthlessly but loudly at the unimpressive conclusive idea. He stared out the window, where a few stars sparkled, forlorn but somehow joyful. 'Such a nonsensical observation-says something about my state of mind,' he thought.
Spinning his pencil between two fingers, he felt that there was still something missing. After all, anyone can write. Anyone can string words together and call it their greatest masterpiece. Words are just words, all too often strung together to make a false impression, declare fallacies true or manipulate others.
His eyes wandered to his bookshelf, full of textbooks systematically arranged by subject in alphabetical order. There was a number of books on literature, which he stared dully at. Although he rarely read literature for leisure, he knew enough from his studies the sometimes tremendous efforts writers make in keeping a certain rhythm, deciding how far to go in breaking a certain convention to make a point and how sometimes every word, every comma, is placed with careful deliberation to reach perfection. All these, just to express meaning in the best possible way.
Meaning. Words without meaning are nothing more than pretty squiggly lines. With new resolve, he stopped spinning the pencil in his hand and held it properly. Sure, anyone can string words together, but he is not merely stringing words together. While his writing won't reach the heights of Shakespeare or Sylvia Plath or Lord Alfred Tennyson, it would be far enough from the likes of an irate flamer using barely distinguishable English or a screaming bully using words to hurt.
The best poetry is written with the soul, inspired by things that strike directly at the heart and motivated by concepts that stick in the mind. The best writers create new symbols and metaphors that not merely describe but define. They craft their stanzas to sound like masterpieces of dramatic effect. They evoke profound feelings that seem to rise like an invisible, encompassing mist from the printed words. They present the most stunning and brilliant images directly to the mind of the reader. They express. Their words mean something, personally to them and to the reader.
He was pretty sure that his writing could achieve only the last one, but he was gratified. The last one, after all, is the most important. Smiling, he began to write. Not with a pencil, but with the part of him that calls itself Timothy Drake.
"Wonderful. My first cliche." A first cliche that he was actually happy about.
End