#d.threads

"Robin." It's an exasperated sigh, one the boy beside him mirrors.

"Daddy." He declares, grinning around a caramel apple he's bound to lose another tooth in. "I want... to go scare the people."

"...Empty your pockets, small fry."

"Why!?"

"'cause I know you got a knife in there and if you stab anybody that ain't me it's a felony. Turn 'em out, Babybird." Robin frowns, turning the pockets of his costume out and walking in a circle as Duck pats him down.

"Good boy. Go get 'em- stick close, okay? no further than the booths." He insists after him- his typically watchful eyes and ears tuned to the boy again. He looks good, healthy, happy, and as he knocks rhythmically on Claire's stall, it's with a warm smile only half-obscured by the mask of his costume. "Evenin', Mrs. Lovett." He greets. "Ya look great- keepin' busy?"

@ambercast

It's not like Duck means to be... the way he is. It's the way he was raised, maybe, the nurture that exacerbated his nature into something... sharp. The drink makes it easier to bear- the failure, the being trapped like a rat in a cage. He's barely held together, physically and mentally, and as his leg tweaks again, he collapses into the snow and mud below him. "Son of a bitch." He winces, as bottles shatter and his flask skitters across cracked pavement, wreaths and small wooden carvings spilling behind them. "Uncle Sam, I'm gettin' real tired a' dealin' with the aftermath of your shit." He spits, trying to force himself back to his feet- only for his leg to give out beneath him again. He lays back in the melting snow, sighs, as the clouds above see fit to split and spill 'spring showers' against him. He pulls the radio from his hip.

He's supposed to be in bed. That was the fact drilled into him, over and over and over again, by his children, and Lucy, and Claire, and Z, and the other rangers and his brothers- some of which were in just the same if not worse shape and still going about their business. He's supposed to be in bed. Laying around. Letting his knee recoup.

Sitting in one place makes him fucking insane.

So Mal Romero is not in bed, sat instead at the piano in his front room, bare chest bandaged in strips of white- the bloodstains finally fading from shirts worn over them- the extra laundry still not worth the option to wear one of his usual button-ups, absently plucking away at a piano piece more contemporary than the ones he'd been raised on. More somber than the jazz and country he'd played for Ophelia to sing along to at parties. It's enough to distract him, from the sound of the front door opening, from the footsteps approaching. "...so flood me like atlantic, bandage up the trenches..." He doesn't quite know the words, he doesn't have to. It's on the pause, between a breath, and a key, that he notices a shadow cast on white keys- turning perhaps a bit harder than he should and hissing in a short, pained breath.

"Fuck- Hey, Z. I um. Listen, I know I'm supposed to be in bed but I just..." He smacks fingers on the keys, discordant. "I need a break from taking a break."

@callofthxvoid

"There are a thousand other things that need my attention today, and here I am, thumb up my ass, waiting for Hawthorne..." He knows better than to have these discussions at the diner anymore, and so, stood on the front step of his brother's home, he absently watches the joint between his fingers dwindle down, pinching the end out when the deadbolt shifts back. He pushes past his brother as the door opens, dropping himself down in a kitchen chair with a groan. "Well. I'm here." He declares, motioning to himself and leveling grey-green eyes on Hawk. "What was so important you needed me to come over when I'm still in the middle of getting the hunting seasons put around town? Oh, and I've got to mind the orchard, and clean my house-" All things he should have finished already- the opiates leave him hazy- slow him down.

He's high right now, eyes hazy as brows crease over them. "Matt in? Am I about to get ambushed about something for y'all's wedding I was supposed to get together? I done told ya I don't know the difference between eggshell and ivory, I ain't that kinda gay."

@ghostsbrokenbyfairytales

"I'm headed t' the faire, daddy!" The Romero house had been alight with activity since early that morning, a blur of color, costumes, and energy as the denizens made haste to be prepared for the Renaissance Faire. It's Wren's voice carrying through the house that makes Mal appear again, his head sticking around the corner of his bedroom door, hands deftly working zippers and belts closed over a half-bared torso. "I'll see y'all there!"

"A'right darlin! Walk safe!" Duck insists, finishing up with his shirt, pulling the cape and armor on and into place over it, the hood tugged up over dark hair and the wicked visage of a wolf's skull grabbed from the dresser beside him. "Robin, buddy, you need help with anything?" He questions, stopping in the hallway until the young boy gives him a negative- that he's almost done, just finding the rest of his nerf darts. "Alright- remember, if you lose any a' them you're shit outta luck, kiddo." His next port of call is downstairs, towering frame appearing in the doorway of the bathroom- blacked out green eyes leveling on Z's gaze in the mirror. "And how're you comin' along there, darlin?"

@callofthxvoid