Who: Tim Drake, "Shovel" the shovel, the dead, and you
What: Maintenance on the graveyard, with a dash of Mexican custom-- dia de los muertos, frozen hellscape, year.... two
When: Let's say October 21- 22.
Where: Milton churchyard

Content Warnings: we doing themes of depression, talk of death, and real janky grief (also very possible but not guaranteed: suicidality, culture bashing, religious themes. and religion bashing. will add to thread headers as needed
To add: the writer is very mexican and it means a lot to me to share some appreciation for the celebration with this character even though he's a punkass. Lyrics from Janitzio. Also I'm slow-slow this month.


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The thing is, he could be getting a few more hours of sleep. With daylight escaping them, Tim figures that he'll be all caught up in paying for his sleep debt by the end of the week; after the light show of the Aurora, the dark of night is only getting darker. Even mornings are getting eaten up by shadows. It creates a conundrum.

Aurora means electricity. That means that Tim can do work that he can actually boast some competency in. It's still light out, and Tim could be sleeping because night will come soon.

But no.

Some moron had to remind him about Shovel, (the shovel) and then Tim went to dig out Shovel from his rat's nest of a bedroom and now he's here. In the churchyard.

Again.

It makes sense (to him).

It majorly sucks to commemorate a year's passing by keeping company with the dead. But it is what it is. And some part of Tim might even argue that the tending to graves is appropriate. Of course, Tim just likes to argue for argument's sake; this is, frankly, likely incredibly inappropriate.

This year, again, Tim (and Shovel), dig out headstones from the snow even though it's snowing. He's learned the graveyard now, at least, and he doesn't trip over buried memorials.

He's also now got two working arms. He's limping along the frost trying to scrape out names of the deceased who got the privilege of a name etched into stone before it gets too dark. But he's got two working arms this time, so, like.

That works.

He works in black gloves and black furs.

Second verse. Same as the first.

"Don't even," he growls. Whether it's a friendly dog-ish dare or a warning is entirely up to the poor sucker who approaches.

"Yeah, it's a little early. But to be honest, I don't think that they care."

So then why, Tim. Why. For god's sake, why.

"Feliz Día de Muertos," he grumbles and (shockingly) the Spanish is fair. "Now go grab a shovel."