WE'RE SO CLOSE TO THE END I CAN TASTE IT


(Deceptive Cadence: A chord that seems to lead to resolving itself on the final chord, but does not.)

Damian blinks in the direction of the stairwell, obscured from his angle in his father's plush chair. He thinks Grayson watches as well, using the television as a mirror to see behind him. They are waiting—because Drake went upstairs and has yet to return. Do they need to go check on him? Is there something they need to say? (Damian thinks he has already given all the advice he has in him.)

He considers—almost fretfully, but that's never something he'd admit to—what other insightful things he could possibly say when the sound of rushed footsteps clamber down the stairs. He twists—sitting up and watching as Tim walks past the entryway to the living room, his pace brisk, a large, fabric cello case strapped on his back.

"Where are you going?" Grayson asks.

"Out," Tim's hands reply, and he's opening the door and gone.

Damian is about to leap over the chair, because this looks like some idiotic getting-rid-of-my-miserable-past moment but Grayson says, "Wait."

Damian despises it when he speaks authoritatively outside of the suit.

(Encore: A piece of music played at the ending of a recital; in this case, a piece of music played at the revival of a recital)

Barbara answers her door of the Clocktower, knowing it's Tim who's there but can't for the life of her think what he wants. Last she'd heard he was grounded, prohibited from patrolling (which he did anyway, if Gotham's cameras were any indicator). Last she'd seen, he and Jason had a thing on one of the gargoyles—but the sad part is a lot of security cameras don't have audio.

"Hey, Tim. Are you alright?" Tim looks down at her as she backs up her chair and nods, slipping the backstraps off of his shoulder, dropping his cello case onto the floor, dragging it gently toward her computer terminal.

"May I use your computer?" He pauses so sign at her, and she silts her head.

"Uh, sure. How's the family?"

"We are good, I think. Busy." She has half a mind to ask about Jason, but her curiosity over Tim's visit wins out over the question—because Lord knows that once emotional territory is breached, the males of the family get the hell out of Dodge. He rolls a chair over from the corner placing it in front of her terminal, before typing in more access codes than she's seen at one time in ages. ACTIVATE? is sitting on the screen in bright, green letters as Tim unzips his fabric cello case, pulling out the polished instrument and a bow.

"What are you doing?" She asks carefully, watching as Tim attaches the stand at the bottom, rosins the bow, and stretches out the first note, just close enough to the sound equipment of hers to tremble through the hub of the Clocktower.

Barbara doesn't ask again.

Instead, she watches Tim tune his instrument, watches as he shuts his eyes and breathes, a smile tugging at his lips.

And then he taps the ENTER key with his bow—

And Gotham vibrates with sound.

(Minor: One of the two modes of the tonal system; can be identified by a dark, melancholic mood)

For a moment, Gotham goes silent. The henchman of the Joker blink, frowning, trying to work their radios. The whole city turns into this, a silent place. Televisions cut to black screens, radios quit in the middle of a rant—the only things working are police radios. But those aren't necessary right now. Because it was only a split second between the silence—

And the concert B flat, singing across the airwaves.

The Clown Prince of Crime himself (he didn't chose that name, or if he did, he wasn't in the right mind when he chose it—but is he ever, really? And it's not like the help is supposed to say anything about it. So they don't) scowls, looking toward the radio that had been reporting the most recent escapade of the Joker. A good, old-fashioned explosion in the subway. Ah. It's the classics.

But the note bleeds out, and is followed by a progression of notes, quiet—the key plucking strings in all three of the henchman present. Up and down the notes go before pausing—and sliding together to create a river. Their eyes sting. Their hearts squeeze.

And they think they could hear a voice, if they listened. (What they do not know, of course, is that this note is part of the G-Minor scale—)

Love me, it says. Love me.

And the Joker starts to laugh.

The henchmen take three steps back, watching their boss react to the music on the radio, laughing so hard it looks painful—laughing so hard tears are streaming down his face—

Or maybe—and none of them say this out loud either—maybe he's crying so hard he's laughing.

(Motif: Primary theme or subject that is developed)

Pamela Isley listens to the song, leaning against her cell, withering in the red light that saps away her energy. It's amazing how the guards are running around, trying to figure out what possessed their intercom system. But it's nice—or—it could be. But her cheeks sting with tears and she wishes she could get to her babies—because her babies love her, right? Of course they do.

Love me.

She doesn't need anyone else but her babies.

Love me.

And she doesn't think she likes the song on the intercom anymore.

(Key change: The key signature for the piece shifts, changing the overall tone of the work)

Selina has her phone in her hand, wiping her cheeks with the back of her other one, trying to sniffle against the pride in her kitten and the emptiness in her bones.

Love me sings over the radio waves, the television stores, the large television screen in the center of Gotham, a dark mimicry of Time's Square.

It's no surprise that Tim really can play beautifully—and that sound on the radio can be nothing but Tim, pulling and pushing at the emotions of the captive audience. (When did he get his music back? She wonders, but it doesn't matter, not really. It's just significant that he did.)

"Yes?" Bruce's voice sounds strained with emotion, and she wonders if this was a bad time.

Love me.

"Can I—Bruce, can I spend some time with you? Today? Perhaps around now?" Love me, the child in her screams. Somebody love me.

"Of course, Selina," and his voice gets warm and soft and—

I love you.

There's a shift in the air around her apartment—around the city. "Okay, be there soon."

"I look forward to it," and the line goes dead.

I love you.

And she isn't sure if she wants to slap Tim or hold him.

(Vibrato: Creating a variation in pitch subtly but adjusting airflow or finger position on a string)

Commissioner Gordon holds his own phone to his ear, looking around the city, feeling the concrete vibrate with sound as a note stretches into resolution before a new line starts up—a deep sound, like a cello, maybe, alone, but creating so much music it feels orchestral.

"Dad?"

"Hey, sweetheart," he says into the receiver, breathing slowly. I love you, the song sings through his ears—and he needs to speak to his daughter. "How are you?" There's a disparity between the sound outside the phone and the sound on her end.

"I'm good. You okay?"

He shuts his eyes. "I just called to tell you I love you, baby."

(Capriccio: A quick, improvisational, spirited piece of music)

Bruce can't help but try on a smile as the music gets light and almost joyful, Dick's arm around his waist, his hand on Damian's shoulder. Alfred sits in the armchair, off his feet for the first time in a long time, and they listen. Tim sings, all around Gotham, in a way Damian had never heard before. In a way Bruce doesn't think he's ever heard either.

And he's—he's so proud. He's proud of Tim—because Tim grew up and grew without any help from him.

I love you.

Bruce brings his family closer, reminding himself to call Cass and Stephanie as soon as he can.

(Adagio: Restful tempo; at ease)

Jason watches his radio like it'll let him see Tim—because this is Tim. It has to be. The love me had been screaming through his apartment (long empty since he'd been staying at the Manor; dusting had been a bitch). And now the I love you is pressing lovingly against the walls, stitching Jason back up.

"I love you," Tim's voice had said to him. And now his other voice trembles into Jason's heart, caressing his ribs, rolling around his insides with all the affection of a human touch.

I love you.

Jason swallows against the knives in his throat.

And he says, "I love you too."

(He's always a little late to the party, isn't he?)

A high note sings into the emptiness of the apartment of Jason Todd.

(Virtuoso: A person with notable skill in the performance of music)

Tim draws his bow over the final concert B flat, resting his cheek against the neck of his cello, his face split into a grin so wide it hurts. He can feel another song writhing just under his skin, ready for the ears of patrons—ready for playing. But he shuts off the interference he'd been running on Gotham—and the televisions and radio stations should come back on.

The music embraces him.

Barbara rolls up to him, holding her hands up—and Tim leans the cello against her computer terminal, leaning down so that she can take his face into her hands. She brings him down, placing a kiss on each cheek, her own wet with tears, her lips stretched into a beautiful smile, reminiscent of her days as Batgirl—a familiar sight when she was with the Bird of Prey.

"That was beautiful, Tim," her lovely lips say.

And he pulls back, his hands bouncing to the rhythm of the music inside him, "I know."

He looks out of the window of the Clocktower, over the city. Jason's out there somewhere.

I love you.