Tim's such an angsty little cutie pie. BEHOLD. THE CHAPTER OF TIM'S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET. C: Enjoy this! the next chapter won't be from Tim's perspective, I promise.
The idea of patrol had been rejected the moment Tim descended into the Batcave. He could not focus and focus is key when swinging from Gotham's rooftops. But he could not stay at the manor either, with his mind so muddled (he had already spaced out once). Besides, now, when his mind wanders , B flat sings and hums within him (but when he tries to grasp that note, it slips away).
He escaped through the Batcave, slipping on the pair of sneakers he leaves down there. This precaution would at least keep up the premise of a patrol.
So it is here that Tim finds himself. Here, a recent secret and an ever deepening shame every time he returns.
Here is The Everyman, one of Gotham's nightclubs (and the only one with a historical literature reference). This affair (and it is one, illicit and disgusting) had started almost exactly one month ago, when Dick had moved out to become Nightwing again.
Stephanie had wanted to go clubbing with him when Dick left. It was supposed to cheer him up. He had stared at the outside of the club then much as he is now. She had called this "starting off small" because this place did a lot of techno remixes of classical songs that Tim would just love (and that is a direct quote).
Tim had hated the press of bodies. But (while the music was not his) it had a thumping pulse. It is that pulse that brought him back the next night. And then one two nights after that. And then the one three nights after (that was the night he actually got on the dance floor, the pulse had been irresistible). And Tim had kept coming back, over and over and over.
It is his shame.
Tim enters the club, his eyes already prepared for darkness. The strobe lights sting when they blaze across his vision, but it doesn't take long to adjust to that either. The pulse of the music is already rushing through him, grabbing at his skin and pulling him to the dance floor, among the smells of sweat and kisses and lust (the smells had also taken getting used to).
Tim listens with his skin. A remix of Beethoven's Symphony No. 5 is pounding from the speakers. ("That boy is the next Beethoven—") Voices are smothered by the pulse and Tim doesn't even have to think about how he has no voice (just his G Minor thought). Even pressed against other dancers (that feel and move and writhe with the vibrations) Tim cannot feel them speak.
Tim is sweating and moving, the music forcing itself into his emptiness, exploding, hiding his G Minor (hiding Tim). Tim is hiding in the songs, blending into vibrations and dancing, until he truly does not know how many songs have passed.
B flat suddenly screams itself into the pulse, undulating and whirling amongst Bach's Fugue in D Minor. It tingles and stings, Tim's skin seeking sound and contact (this is his shame, his wrongness, his filth).
A shockwave pounds him in the middle and heat washes over his face. He stops dancing. The others on the floor begin to move in a wave of fear. Silence settles, cold and hard, the Fugue murmuring around his empty circle. The B flat fades out, carrying for three short moments, high and clear, the tuning note for many things. Tim's lungs expand in gasps, heat from a fire in the north wall of the club drying out his vocal cords.
Two Face emerges from the flames (and he has gone from being Harvey to Two Face so many times that Tim, if his memory weren't what it is, would have lost count by now). The word he spits is Catwoman. Panic grips Tim's stomach and he turns his head, scanning the retreating mob and the few people that are frozen in place. Selina Kyle is one of those people. She is not looking at Two Face, but Tim.
Tim thinks he is going to be sick. He could run. Selina could have mistaken someone else for him, if he leaves now. But innocent people will get hurt if he doesn't stay, as emphasized by one of Two Face's henchmen firing a pistol round into the ceiling.
Selina gestures, running forward. Tim flanks. He isn't in his uniform, but Tim isn't memorable, not since he fell off the musical map a year ago. In this case, he's just a gutsy teenaged boy bringing down a crime lord.
Tim makes sure not to use any moves that Robin uses. But Batman doesn't know Tim knows these attacks. It is a blending of Jason Todd (and Tim remembers every fight with him perfectly) and Batman, Dick and Damian. Justice with violence. Disarming breaks someone's arm, Tim feels it, can picture it in a jagged G sharp. But someone hits him. Tim drops his opponent, sees Selina working on Dent (she is fast, Tim has never noticed before). He shoves against his new attacker. This once lacks a gun which means he is a hand-to-hand combat man.
Tim can tell. He lands blows, scratches Tim's face.
Tim boxes the man's ears and slams his forehead against the henchman's. Blood is oozing from the man's ears as he collapses, but his eardrums will heal. Tim didn't smack his ears that hard. He slips out of the club through the hole that Two Face had blasted into the wall. He needed to be out of here because Batman and Nightwing (or at least one of them) is sure to show up soon.
Selina is in front of him before he can break into a run.
"What are you doing here, kid?" Her lips are lovely. Stephanie wishes for lips like those every night before she goes to sleep. (At least, that's what she told him, anyway.)
"Don't tell Bruce," Tim's hands say, shaking nervously, because he needs to get out of here.
"I assume that means don't tell Daddy Bats." Tim forgets that not everyone understands sign languages. Tim nods. Selina shrugs. "That doesn't answer my question—" Tim slips past her and runs. He doesn't feel her footsteps behind him, so he assumes that she, too, is waiting for Bruce to arrive. He will be sure to ask what set Two Face off this time. Tim can picture her batting her lashes and shrugging off whatever she stole while walking her fingers up his chest.
How did you not know Two Face was out and about, Tim? He can picture Bruce's disappointed rumble. Guilt swallows him up and presses against his insides.
It provokes him to run faster, the sweat cooling on his too-warm skin.