To the lovely guest reviewer: Thanks so much for your kind words! It really means a lot to me right now. BTAS Tim has become one of my personal favorites, and is my first exposure to the character and series in general, so I want to portray him as close to DCAU canon as I can while balancing both sides of his origin (i.e. Jason and Tim roots). I love that he basically combines the best qualities of both, and feel he deserves his own story to be told. I do adore the original relationship between Tim and Steph in the comics as well, so I hope to try and capture/honor that dynamic in the context of this setting. ...Even though I still feel like I don't know nearly enough about either character to be able to portray them effectively lol. OTL Writing Steph is quite fun though. \o/ I just hope I'm doing her justice. ^^;
That said: Let's bring on the purple princess's first encounter with her "prince"~ *brick'd*
Slow down, you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart, tell me
Why are you still so afraid?
-Billy Joel, "Vienna"
Then.
"Hey, you hear about what happened? Some guy fainted during lab."
"What, were they dissecting something?"
"Nah, get this: It was electrical engineering. Dude just started freaking out all of a sudden when someone came up behind him with a pair of battery clamps. I think they were playing some kind of practical joke."
"You're talking about Tim Drake, right? The computer whiz? He's seriously weird."
"He's kinda cute though, don't you think?"
"I guess, but he's a total creep. I mean, he never talks to anyone. And he always looks angry for some reason. It's scary."
"He wasn't always that way. I knew him back in junior high, we used to trade comics and play video games together. He was sorta shy and kept to himself at first when he transferred in, but friendly once you got to know him. Plus he turned out to be super-smart when it came to tech stuff, everyone treated him like the local expert. He was a real nice guy about it, always happy to come over and help fix any software bugs. Surprisingly good at sports too, he liked to brag and show off for the crowd by doing crazy cool stunts. Even though he was often getting in trouble for all the rebel antics, everyone else thought it was a riot. He was kind of the class clown; known for cracking a lot of dumb puns and generally being a cocky wiseass. …It's not like he was just doing it for attention though. If anyone was feeling down he'd try to cheer them up by making them laugh – and it usually succeeded. He was actually pretty popular."
"For real? That emo? What changed?"
"He just suddenly dropped out for a whole year without warning; the 'official' cover story stated that he went to study abroad somewhere, but I heard he was actually in some kind of accident. When he came back though, he was… 'different'. Wouldn't hang out with us anymore. He'd act all nervous and twitchy whenever others approached. It was like he didn't trust anybody, as if everyone were out to get him. He was always watching his back, looking over his shoulder and constantly on edge – almost as if he were paranoid someone was after him. Like he was being followed or something. He started getting into fights a lot too, and even got suspended once for breaking a kid's nose."
"Whoa. Wouldn't have expected that, he seems like such a geek."
"I remember my mom telling me to stay away from him. Apparently his dad was some kind of criminal. She read about it in a magazine, he spent time in juvie for shoplifting and stuff."
"Oh yeah, wasn't he adopted by that famous rich guy?"
"Sounds awfully suspicious, if you ask me. I bet they were involved in some shady business, and paid off the administration to keep things quiet."
"Honestly, the whole thing felt 'off' even before he disappeared. Something sketchy was definitely going on. He'd show up to school late with bruises all the time. If anyone asked about it, he'd make up some lame excuse by claiming he 'walked into a door' or something… I mean, who does that? The teachers didn't really seem to buy it either, but no one ever did anything. Probably too afraid to speak out against someone who can hire the best lawyers in the country."
"No way, you think the old man was abusing him? Man, no wonder he's messed up."
"Sh, he's coming this way."
Their discussion fell silent as the group of gossipers ducked behind fake veneers of indifference, thinly veiled. Feigning aloofness – while obviously sneaking stray observations – as the previous topic of their conversation (in)conveniently passed by. Though he appeared to pay them no heed, the temperature in the air seemed to drop in his wake.
"Crap. You think he heard us?"
"Dunno. Let's just get to class."
They awkwardly hurried off, casting gawking ganders over their shoulders, goggling and giggling to each other in hushed undertones. Escaping around an angle, the gaggle's squawking resumed volume once they assumed they were securely out of earshot. Tim paused in the middle of the empty corridor, letting out an exhale of irritation.
"Idiots. Of course I could hear you."
He thought things would change when he got to college, but every now and then instances like this cropped up. He supposed it was partially his own fault for choosing a field that specifically triggered unpleasant memories, but it was for that reason he was aiming to overcome it through repeated exposure. …Or maybe he was just doing it to punish himself on purpose. He couldn't really tell anymore.
God, he needed a smoke.
Absently, he fingered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket – an addiction developed when pills and alcohol weren't strong enough to take the stress and anxiety away. He tried not to make a habit of skipping at least, but cutting class in favor of relieving tension never sounded so inviting as right now. Checking over his schedule, he figured he could afford to miss the next lecture. The material was all in the textbook anyway, and he'd already read ahead. It was the practical application – working directly with wires and circuits without wanting to recoil at every spark – that worried him.
Grinding his teeth, he decided. Five minutes of distraction. That's all he needed. Savoring the thought of sweet nicotine and tobacco occupying his buds in place of bitterness – deaden the damn buzzing in his brain cells (even if it meant ruining them and his lungs) – he gave into compulsion and started heading towards the nearest outlet. He was so fixated on his craving that he failed to foresee round the bend – and bumped straight into what could only be described as a blonde bullet barreling down the hall. The force of the collision's impact knocked him clear over, ending sprawled on the floor with the clumsy, purple-clad cannonball sputtering on top.
"OhmygodohmygodI'msosorryareyouokay?!"
Tim stared at the extraterrestrial entity that had crash-landed onto him. Blue crystal eyes blinking beneath waves of yellow amber, fluttering and flustered; full lips framed by flushed, angular cheeks; an average yet athletic figure, lean and fit, comprised of long legs linked to a short, slender torso, with square shoulders and hips. The somewhat tomboyish build belied the owner's gender at first, but eventually he registered the two small, soft mounds constricting his chest. Judging by her dimensions, he mentally calculated mass by measurement, estimating she couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds. A portion of the pressure, then, probably came from the bulging bookbag she had barely slung over her slim bicep, spilling some of its contents through a half-closed zipper.
"I'm fine, but… Could you please get off? It's kinda hard to breathe."
"Oh right, sorry!"
He helped heft the satchel up as she quickly clambered off, still stunned by its heaviness.
"Christ, what do you got in here? Bricks?"
"Just books and stuff. Sorry, I was running late and trying to find my schedule, so I wasn't looking where I was going. This place is so big I keep getting lost…"
Tim picked up one of the papers lying on the ground, scanning the long list of subject names.
"You're really taking all these courses?"
"Yeah. Comp Sci's a bitch though, the prof's gonna kill me if I don't show up."
She shuffled around, urgently gathering her things. Tim handed her the agenda, hesitating before stooping to assist.
"…You shouldn't joke about killing people."
He muttered under his breath.
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Here."
He passed her another stack, and she lingered on him for a moment before brightening with recognition.
"You're… Tim Drake, aren't you? There are a lot of rumors about you. They say you used to live with Bruce Wayne the billionaire."
Tim rolled his eyes. Of course his reputation preceded him.
"…I'm sure that's the least of what they say."
She made a look like she'd just swallowed a frog. Clearly she didn't intend for that last part to come out.
"Um, I didn't mean it in a bad way! Rather, I hear you're a huge ner- er, like a computer genius or something? I was thinking maybe you could tutor me sometime. O- only if you're willing that is! It's not like I'm asking a total stranger out of the blue because I'm embarrassed and don't know what else to say and ohgod I'm babbling again aren't I?"
Tim watched as her face grew even redder.
This girl… Does she just say the first thing that pops into her brain?
To be honest, it was kind of refreshing – having someone openly communicate what was really going through the other's head for once. Her self-conscious straightforwardness reminded him of another fair-haired woman who used to work for Wayne Enterprises, with a similar flair for lilac fashion and accessories, as well as a knack for digging herself deeper into faux pas pits, prone to both Freudian and foot slips. While seemingly inept, she was savvy when it came to science, and – being an adolescent at the pivot of puberty – he'd harbored a bit of a schoolboy crush on her intelligence as much as mature beauty. …Although she turned out to be wearing a dubious mask as well, burying baggage and a brutal grudge against Penguin beneath bumbling pretense. (Not to mention she already had a boyfriend.) Still, they'd managed to bond briefly over retro entertainment. She was the one who showed him how to reach the secret level of Death Castle 3000 that he'd impressed the guys with back in the day, shortly before…
Stop. Don't go there.
His train of thought halted, backpedaling. Mind in rewind. He wasn't sure what wounded worse at this stage: the remembrance of more innocent, carefree days, or how abruptly he'd been robbed of them – robbed of then – so callously and casually. How he'd been Rob-
He clenched his fist, composing. Either way, it didn't matter. Shoving it all back into its corner, he shut the door on the dark recess, locking the compartment and throwing away the key. Turning away from the closet (or was it behind the clock?) where the "monster" prowled (with or without a cowl); watching, waiting, wreathing, breathing in basement shadows. Wreaking vengeance in the night. …In his nightmares.
Enough, come on. Get it together, Drake.
"I don't know about tutoring, but I can show you where to find the room."
"Really? That'd be so awesome, thank you!"
That's it. Act "normal". You remember how.
"It's no problem. I'm… headed there too."
"Oh yeah, you usually sit in the back, don't you? Good thing we ran into each other then. Er, not literally of course. I mean we did run into each other, but that was my fault. Did I mention how sorry I was?"
In her apologetic excitement, her hand darted forward, brushing against his as both simultaneously reached for the final notebook between them. She blushed again, pulling away from the close contact as she tucked a strand of golden straw behind her ear.
"Man, this is like a total movie cliché. Next thing there'll be sparkly bubbles and a bad romantic soundtrack playing the background."
Again, she seemed unaware she'd made this statement aloud. Tim felt a faint ripple of amusement rising in his throat, something almost strange and foreign at this point. He endeavored to hold back, but it was too late; he couldn't help it as the mild chuckle slipped out. She amazed, eyes widening.
"Hey, you laughed."
Tim immediately bit back regret.
"Did it… sound weird?"
"No, it's just that… I've never heard you laugh before. I think it's the first time I've seen you smile." She grinned. "You should try it more often."
"That's…" He fumbled with the journal, vision flicking down to the open page in front of him as he caught glimpse of the first line. She panned down as well, tracking his sight, and panicked when she realized what he was perusing. Springing forward, she snatched the stationery and flipped it shut before stuffing it back in her bag.
"Er, we should probably get going, shouldn't we!"
"Uh, right. Sorry. Didn't mean to be nosy or anything."
Tim found it a little odd for someone who wore her heart so candidly on her sleeve to keep a diary (especially at this age), but he supposed everyone had their secrets. …Some were just bigger than others.
As they stood and started walking at a brisk tempo, Tim wondered something aloud himself:
"How come you're carrying so many books anyway? I thought most people just used digital these days."
"Oh, well, I can't really afford a laptop or tablet." She confessed, seeming slightly sheepish to reveal her lower financial status.
Great job. You walked into that one.
"I'm trying to save up for one though." Her tone perked again. "Doing work-study at the library to pay for tuition and board on the side."
Tim nodded in empathy. Even though he'd experienced living in the lap of luxury for a few years, it didn't erase the fact he'd grown up in Gotham's most poverty-stricken slums, surrounded by lowlifes and scum. As much as he resented being forced to follow in his father's footsteps as a common crook, during the worst of times even he had to resort to thieving himself simply in order to survive. He knew just how tough it could be for those who weren't part of the city's wealthy elite.
Truth be told, he probably could've selected a more prestigious academy to attend; his grades were good enough despite the disciplinary strikes on his permanent record, but Gotham U had leniently granted a full-ride scholarship. Dick had offered to help pay his brother's way through education, of course, but he'd had enough of sponging off others' charity. Even though the older male tried to pass it off as a loan, Tim refused to accept, not wanting to owe any more than he already did. Determined to make it on his own, he vowed not to rely on anyone else's handouts anymore. …Though he did have some doubts about the origin and integrity of funding for such a substantial aid package (even if there was no solid proof the Wayne Foundation was involved).
Still, there was no denying there was a legitimate merit base to it. It took a while (and a ton of counseling), but eventually he learned to channel temper into productivity. He'd struggled and busted his butt through the latter half of high school to maintain top academic standing, managing to graduate with highest honors. Most nights now were devoted to downing copious amounts of caffeine and intensively absorbing information; not like he had anything better to do with his evenings at any rate. In a way, substituting hitting the books instead of bad guys had its own therapeutic effect (even if either obsessive behavior wasn't exactly "healthy" in Dr. Thompkins' opinion), as at least it helped keep his mind off… other things. Things that prevented him from falling asleep during lessons, even though he still stayed up late into the peak light of morning. Dreading that to close his eyes and surrender to dozing off for even a second would conjure recurrent images he could never quite completely suppress – even with the aid of drugs – and subsequently subconscious conduct he couldn't control.
Fortunately his roommate was tolerant towards his insomnia, even if Conner constantly complained about his overly compensating attitude ("All work and no play makes a dull ex-Boy Wonder") and insisted he should take a break – for both their sakes. (To which Tim would wryly reply just to shut him up: "Can't sleep, clowns will eat me.") Out of growing concern for his friend's wellbeing, he kept trying to convince Tim to take his meds so "he" could at least get some rest (and even went so far as to slip some sedatives in his coffee on more than one occasion, although Tim always managed to catch him in the act). …Or alternately, as a more appealing option from the other's standpoint: quit being such a cooped-up bookworm and come out and party once in a while.
Tim always declined the invitation, instead much preferring to relax via more virtual means, i.e. the quiescent comradeship of his computer. Whenever he didn't have his nose neurotically buried in a book his hollow eyes were usually glued to the screen (despite the strain it caused due to increasing debt of sleep deprivation, accruing a dangerous deficit according to his elderly physician, whose cautions he continued to stubbornly ignore). Entranced and ensnared by an enchanted web – a safety net – most of his spare time was spent randomly surfing online and writing source code, fingers flying free across the keyboard at a speed that would make even the Flash jealous.
…Sometimes, for idle kicks, he'd sneak into the school's domain network and mess around a bit with the server settings – just to prove that he could (though the rush from breaching security systems couldn't compare to how he used to soar high over rooftops and beat down villains, forever ago). Hacking was still the one skill Bruce taught him that hadn't grown rusty over the years, and he made sure to exercise it on a regular basis. Even the old man had remarked on how he demonstrated remarkable aptitude despite his age (nevermind having zero prior experience), picking up on complex techno jargon reportedly faster than Dick. Where he could never quite keep up with the bar standard set by his senior's natural talent for gymnastics (although not for lack of trying), he took consolation in uncovering – unearthing – a subterranean subset of intellect he hadn't even known he possessed. The first time he singularly broke through a firewall to access a government database was one of his proudest – and admittedly fondest – accomplishments. Combining sharp wit with an innate interest in gadgetry (as opposed to a penchant for punching), he'd polished potential into proficiency, personally refining his abilities on his own to the point he could probably program even in his slumber. (…Again, not like he did much of that nowadays.) Adapting adeptness since then to more… mundane tasks.
By coincidence, their path crossed by the aforementioned reference center (where he often sought sanctuary between his dorm and the classroom, finding solace amongst paperbacks rather than peers). Following statement of service at the same site as his safe haven, his companion carried on to further explain her apparent familiarity with his features:
"I see you around there a lot, actually. …You're always by yourself though."
Tim shrugged. "Easier to concentrate that way."
She was riveting him with another curiously intent gaze, and it made him uncomfortable as he coughed, admonishing to detract emphasis from himself.
"Look, shouldn't you be paying attention to where we're going from here? You're gonna have to find your way around on your own eventually."
"Ah, right!" She directed ahead again, although her mouth kept moving along with her feet. "Seriously, this school is like a freakin' maze. Can you believe it has its own art museum?"
"It's even got a bank as well."
"Get out. No wonder people keep trying to rob this place."
"It's advertised right in the brochure. …Pretty ridiculous, huh?"
"I know, right? They should just put a giant sign over the door inviting all the criminals in."
As they pressed onwards, Tim found himself getting more wrapped up in his partner's pace than he'd anticipated. Her gait was light and lively compared to his straggling slouch (as if his legs were laden with lead, dragged down by invisible chains more burdensome than books), and she radiated sunshine with every energetic step, nearly skipping beside him. Chattering amiably and incessantly in a way that rather resembled Dick before his own… "accident". (Or himself, once upon a time.)
Listening to her waffle on, he wondered how long it had been since he'd last spoken to someone like this (and, as an afterthought: if this was how Bruce felt having a ceaselessly hyper child on his tail). Even if he didn't let his guard down enough to equate loquaciousness, volleying scarce verbiage in return beyond vague acknowledgements (he was pretty sure his stilted responses mostly consisted of barely satisfactory grunts, which she somehow interpreted as encouragement – or at least adequate affirmation of attentiveness), just the fact someone outside the so-called "family" was willing to talk to him for once put him at a peculiar sense of ease. Particularly after years of people avoiding him like the bubonic plague. (…Funny how he'd inevitably inherited his mentor's Byronic disposition – but ironically without all the charismatic allure entailed by bad fiction authors.) Rejecting social interaction with him as much as the other way around.
For that matter, it was already insufferable putting up with all the whispers behind his back – as well as within his own skull. Relentless mad murmurs, memory of murder. He had enough on his plate just striving to keep up a façade, countless hours spent degrading, deprecating, demeaning and demanding in the mirror. Honing and hammering self-perceived flaws back into place. All the spots where Joker had touched, carved and cut away pieces of himself, gouging dents and divots. Vainly tracing veins, rich deposits filled with gems of restricted knowledge – excavating and extracting every valuable bit of mineral from his brain's bedrock, no matter how minimal. Keeping quarried prey perpetually stoned and shocked before dealing the final mortifying blow.
Because the Joker didn't stop there, no. He had an even more morbid plan, a manic scheme beyond harvesting secrets and screams. (Like that silly CGI monster movie Dick took him to see once said: "Laughter is ten times more powerful.") The wicked magician wasn't content with just plundering the Boy Wonder's cranium, but wanted to make him cave. Crave "Papa's"praise. Construct an enduring monument to his name – a miniature minion – by bending brave backbone and virtuous fiber out of shape – "molding" in order to fulfill his own twisted definition of "perfection". A model "lovingly" sculpted to echo the madman's own demented ego. Since then his Glasglow victim had persistently practiced reverting his expression to a dull default, if not "natural" stasis. Blank slate. It took all his restraint to resist forming wrinkles on a daily basis, stifling any sort of comedic reaction for fear of never being able to restore to its original state (plus it still ached sometimes whenever his muscles stretched too far).
On top of sustaining a stone facial structure, he detested having to abide the abhorrently blithe beams others bore around him – plainly censoring scorn behind poor camouflage – a blanket barrier of defense that went both ways. Even the few who were aware of his "situation" always tiptoed on eggshells when they attempted to engage, and quite frankly he was sick of being coddled like some delicate baby bird (or perhaps it was more precise to say they handled him as carefully they would a live bomb, set to go off at any time – a dormant disaster waiting to happen). Even if they meant well, at this point he hated the humiliation of such patronizing overprotectiveness even more, like he wasn't an adult who could make his own decisions (although to be fair his history was riddled with reckless choices, rash irrationality leading to catastrophic consequences). Both Dick and Barbara had tried to dissuade him from pursuing this career path; Conner was the only one who fully supported him, although Tim could tell even he thought it was a deliberate act of self-destruction. Countdown to detonation. (…In a way he wasn't wrong.)
Which is why it was a welcome variance just to have a civil – if somewhat one-sided – dialogue with someone, no strings attached. There was something earnestly endearing about the eager (if ignorant) interest this girl exhibited in everything around her – including him. Her forthright charm was disarming – and alarming. He kept having to consciously check himself, sternly reinforcing to reign back, refrain from getting swept up in her flirtatious tornado – a temptress tempest. Withstand the whirlwind gust of butterflies bombarding his stomach. It was almost like being struck by a consecutive comet punch to the belly (or, as Dick would dirtily suggest with smug shamelessness, "below the asteroid belt"), only the meteor projectile was a blustering, blundering ball of vibrant vitality. Landing on his side of courtship before he even witnessed the serve: 15-love.
The mutual infatuation was palpable in her batting lashes and bashful body language, mischievously tugging at the fringe of her hooded sweater. While he could reasonably read the telltale signs of throbbing affection well enough, he couldn't for the life of him fathom why someone like her would be attracted to some lonely loser outcast with no significant redeeming qualities to speak of. He'd had girls hit on him before, citing such motives as "cool", "mysterious", and "bad boy", but they were always so superficial he turned them down on principle. (…Which, in turn led to other wild conjecture on his own orientation, given oft proximity to a certain studly "specimen"; conclusions he neither bothered to confirm nor refute. Not like there was much of his ill repute worth upholding anymore.)
Truthfully he'd never had much luck in the dating department. (…Or with any type of intimate relationship really, regardless of romantic pursuit.) The closest thing to an actual "girlfriend" he'd had (if she could be called that, considering she wasn't exactly human or even originally "female" to begin with… speculation about his sexuality aside) died a long time ago – as did his hope of ever feeling sincere happiness (not the "ha ha" kind Joker fed him) – or permitting himself any sort of endangering emotion again. He'd warily warded his heart, warning against allowing anyone to join the war he had to continually wage against himself. Forging armor against amour, steeling and steering clear of suitors. The sheer dynamic of this one's overwhelming… joy was infectious though, and despite deeply ingrained misgivings, he found himself vastly appreciating the company. (Heck, her clever coyness was starting to rub off, to the point he even risked a few minor quips he hadn't imagined he was still capable of producing.)
He was so engrossed by their exchange that by the time they arrived at their destination, seminar was already well under way. Tim wavered on whether to even enter at this juncture, but the other strode boldly in boot-first, despite the teacher spearing her the stink-eye for being interrupted.
"Well, if it isn't my stellar 'purple pupil'. How gracious of you to finally join us. How many tardies does this make now?"
"It's eggplant, actually. Purple would've looked stupid," she auto-corrected, and was met with scathing reproach. Wilting, she mumbled. "…Sorry, Professor. I promise it won't happen again, thanks to my trusty navigator."
Tim winced as she winked teasingly back at him, and he could sense snickers and judgmental nudges in the crowd, cell phones surreptitiously tapping furious texts to each other. He could picture the cascade of contextually and grammatically inaccurate news spreading across campus like wildfire, at a velocity not even Mr. Kent could match – in or out of costume.
Another rumor to add to the repertoire. Swell.
The instructor quirked an eyebrow, evidently surprised to see she was accompanied by an escort, who just so happened to be one of the best students in the course – at least based on the boy's impressive transcript. While the assignments he handed in boasted hints of advanced comprehension beyond the basic concepts, he noticeably never seemed to volunteer any extra intel unless it was absolutely necessary, purposefully retaining a low pedantic profile for some unknown rationale.
"…Is that so? Very well then. Both of you have a seat."
Before Tim could slink to his predictable position in the rear of the room, she bounded over to two vacant chairs near the front row and waved him over. Reluctantly, he followed suit. He could feel all eyes trained on him from every vantage, and he really wanted to crawl into a hole and vanish right now.
As the period progressed, he found himself unable to focus much either, disregarding both board and discourse in utter boredom. Rather than receive redundant edification, his dedication divided instead between mute marvel at the growing number of blatant doodles on the binder's border next to him – immaculate plum-painted nails playing with the pen as the holder gnawed its nub whenever the droning sermon lost her own immersion – and the gentle curl of hair elegantly draped over her nape as she bent over the desk to diligently scribble down shorthand upon gaining understanding to some insight (although her level of competence was certainly questionable, given the number of glaring mistakes he noted; for a cursory instant, he was half-inclined to reach over and edit all the errors himself, but hastily perished the urge). He detected a distinct whiff of perfume and herbal shampoo, and it made him weak and woozy in a different way than those damn pranksters did. The lightly fruit-scented fragrance smelled nice, like lavender flowers and mulberry mixed with muliebrity-
What the hell are you doing?
Quit being a perv, damnit.
This is bad.
You shouldn't be feeling this way at all.
Get a grip, for God's sake.
He clutched his quivering knee to keep from knotting into a bundle of nerves and repressed hormones, but couldn't abstain from stealing peripheral peeks here and there, as if her dazzling brilliance were too much to take in all at once. Lusting over luster. She was pretty, in a heavenly-yet-down-to-earth sort of way, and her geniality (if lack of grace) seemed almost appallingly genuine. He wasn't one to put stock in providence or miracles, or even supposed "love at first sight"; but beholding her rapturous halo, he wondered what were the odds a curse could really be cured by kindness, illness or injury consoled solely by divine blessing. If bliss could really be obtained through forbidden kiss (succumb to a serpent's succulent hiss) – or if partaking in poisoned produce would only act as a temporary placebo, if not lead to further pain. …Whether a presence as unworthy as his was even permissible around such a pristine, apparently untainted angel. Just basking in her hallowed glow felt warm and cleansing, an aurous aura. Purging sins from his past. Purifying.
His thoughts roved, ruminating on the idea of salvation, of seeking forgiveness – submit to a flicker of fantasy. …Claim some semblance of an "ordinary life" when he could still hardly cling on to shreds of sanity, sifting through his fingers as sand. To dare to dream of stability, of "going steady" – commit to an alliance after all the times he'd been abandoned by people he depended on – seemed far beyond his forlorn reach, especially when he wasn't even sure of his own horoscope's alignment anymore. The last time he held such naïve notions he got burned by those lofty ideals, flying too close to the sun (or maybe the moon in this case, having shot for it – literally – landing with battle scars rather than stars). Consequently, it became excruciatingly difficult to bring himself to believe in a chance at a better future, when "God" had forsaken him before.
He'd worshipped someone once, praying wholly to what his own kin (and his ilk's conning "kind") deemed a holy terror. By some stroke of fortune – or a cruel twist of fate – he ended up encountering his gallant (if extremely gloomy) knight in the flesh, who granted guardianship in exchange for allegiance – albeit gruffly rebuffing advances at first. He'd gladly knelt and sworn an oath before his king, begging and bowing over backwards out of gratitude, as well as desperation for approval. Before long he learned to leap without even questioning height or hazard, complying to perform flips and tricks on command. (Though there were times when his instinct jumped too far ahead on its own, positive someone would be watching his back wherever he descended. …Rest assured that the collective clan would never let anything bad happen to their youngest "descendant".) Pledging filial piety and loyalty to a legacy, only to gradually discover his idol wasn't a deity – or even a demon as many denounced. …That beneath the cape and cowl and cold scowl was a mere human, a mortal who did, in fact, bleed and grieve, bearing every load on board his solitary vessel, hidden deep below deck. A boat originally built for one (single survivor's guilt) but big enough for carrying – caring for – stranded cargo. Drafting other drifters to his raft, pass on a private craft. Whose pilot needed his crew members' guidance sometimes to keep from sinking or straying off course, stay anchored to safe harbor and mental shore. Rescue from wallowing in waves of rage and remorse when moral compass turned south.
Despite whatever rare lapses in judgment, the captain's (second) first mate remained fierce in his fidelity, staunchly refusing to conceive his hero could ever fail in any major capacity, let alone to a capsizing extent. (That he could ever fall from benediction, and no one would be there to catch him. …That he'd be the first to contradict the ship's "code", plunge overboard into the depths of despair and depravity, with no answer to his emergency signal.) Fealty unfaltering out of reverence and respect, for a man who fought against shortcomings in order to achieve the impossible, executing such incredible feats seemingly without exertion. Dauntless noble deeds of do-goodism and derring-do that he'd fervently yearned to reproduce someday. Admiring and aspiring to imitate his greatest inspiration, adulating on a pedestal. His long-term goal wasn't just to emulate either, but improve upon in an effort to not only succeed, but surpass. Excel by exceeding expectations. …Show that one could effectively combat crime without compromise or sacrifice.
In the meantime, he made it his objective – obligation – to repay the opportunity he was given with optimism. He delighted in playing the scrappy "sidekick" role – enthusiastically reporting to duty each evening with a jaunty scout's salute, ready for a round of roughhousing or infiltrating as secret agents, reveling in all the adrenaline from decking gangsters or decking out in disguises and spy gear. A giddy greenhorn boy brimming with wonder and glee, bouncing merrily about the murky cave as if every day were Christmas – a gift. New toys and trophies everywhere he looked; no need to even unwrap the presents. Exploring a covert cove chock-full of baubles and trinkets (his favorites included a leviathan's carcass and an enormous piece of eight), an ancient treasure trove. A gallery of won artifacts stored below the galley, more priceless than any antique ornaments above surface combined. These were real relics attributing to Gotham's rogues, and a testament to the victories of his predecessors in glory days of old. He even helped to expand inventory, tinkering and adding personal touches to the collection here and there. Proudly placing another procured award behind glass every time they put a baddie behind bars (until the day his own effects would end up back in a memorial case). While a part of him privately couldn't wait to take over the entire empire eventually – take command of the helm – for the time being its property authorized belonging to the primary shareholder by a black banner, sans skull and crossbones.
He didn't mind being backup – an "intern", so to speak – in the interim though (not much to start at least, though it irked when the media would portray him as a waterboy rather than a relief pitcher), marching to pompous parade, pumping up as the team's temp mascot, but a humble flagbearer. As soon as he put on his own colorful cape, he'd caper and cartwheel, putting on parkour – par for the course, but outside obstacles as well. Not simply out of thanks for the thrill. (Although it was a factor in his resolve to replace the former scarlet sailor after he retired as an associate, stripping the red attire in a disapproving act of defiance, mutinying in insubordination and accumulated aggrievances. Tim had tried repeatedly to toss a lifeline between the two in order to bridge the gap, managing to preserve and practically mend semi-severed ties before they frayed and fell apart again, unraveling all at once.) Part of the reason was to dispel dreariness, chasing and shooing away shadows in order to cheer and support his savior, who'd fished him out from the sea after being marooned by a "bad oyster", scrubbing away sewage and buffing salvage to a shine. Benevolently raised from perdition as son and heir to his throne, bestowing wings and faith – only to ultimately drop back into eternal hell again.
Ever since, his tarnished psyche was too battered and betrayed to view beyond anything but blemishes. Shattered self-esteem marred far past repair, leaving lasting scabs on both skin and soul. In his own downcast perspective, his conscience was corrupted – disrupted not just through lies and deceit – but disgusted by itself. There was no precious prize buried at the bottom of the ocean, no diamond in the rough at his rotten core – but a lump of coal pretending to be a black pearl, depleted of value and valor. Masquerading as a musketeer. A stalwart swashbuckler transformed into shell-shocked soldier, war-torn and worn down by the weight of the real world, once adventurous and intrepid spirit weathered by squall and thunderstorm. Wishes and will ground mercilessly through a mill, crushing youthful confidence to dust. Dreams dashed, defiled and desecrated. Decimated. Disintegrated.
…Still, he pondered on the blurted proposal earlier, mulling over possibilities. Why not just agree to help with her studies for now, and maybe, after enough weekly meetings, work up the meek courage to ask her-
You know why.
You're not supposed to get close to anyone, remember?
What makes you think you deserve it.
She'll just hurt and desert you like all the others.
She'd never accept you. …Not once she learns what kind of monster you really are.
He shook his head, shooting down the prospect. Who was he kidding; he was better off the same as that brooding bastard – an island in isolation (if not insane institution).
As soon as the dissertation dismissed, he slammed his PC shut, folding perhaps a little too forcefully. Before he could melt into the throng departing en masse though and flee through its midst, her voice caught up with him in the aisle-
"Hey, wait up!"
Tsking, he turned to see her holding out her palm in belated greeting.
"I just realized, I'm such a dork. I totally forgot to introduce myself. My name's Stephanie. Stephanie Brown."
He stalled, steadying his rapid pulse before tentatively taking the gesture.
"…Nice to meet you, Stephanie."
She shook firmly, and he could feel the heat of her hand convecting – connecting – to his. (Again, he had to stay beating palpitations in his breast, stave off tremors and sweat.)
"Listen, if you're not doing anything later, do you maybe want to hang out? Doesn't have to be to study or anything, I just thought we could grab some lunch or something. …You do eat, right? Figured you might not get enough nutrients, since I heard you, er, kinda collapsed the other day. Plus you're so skinny… N-not that it's a bad thing! You look good for someone your size. Hell, I wish I had your figure." She stammered, stumbling over her words again. "God, I'm just insulting you more, aren't I? Sorry, I have a tendency to keep rambling. …I should just shut up now."
Tim wet his tongue, tantalized by the bone being dangled enticingly in front of him despite her horrid butchering of it. Instead he grit his jaw, spitting out a feeble attempt at polite pass.
"Thanks, I think… But I'm, uh, sorta busy. Maybe some other time."
Idiot, why would you say that. Now you're just leading her on.
"Oh. Okay." Disappointment etched visibly on her visage, legible in the drooped lines around her chin, extending to the subconscious slack of her grasp. She didn't let go though, and he had to not-so-subtly prompt her again.
"Um… You mind releasing my hand now?"
"Oh, of course!"
She liberated with an apprehensive laugh. Tim felt a twinge of discomfort, distressing over inadvertent damage doled to her dignity as much as she fretted over the reverse. Before he could assuage any assumptions though, their disgruntled adviser interjected upon unexpectedly emerging between them:
"If you two lovebirds are done courting, I was wondering if I might have a word with you?"
They both startled in unison, and Stephanie started to doth protest.
"We weren't – I wasn't-"
Tim, however, was more rattled by the threat of repercussions for making another spectacle of himself. The last thing he wanted was faculty hounds further panting down his neck.
"Relax, Mr. Drake, you're not in trouble. To be blunt, I could care less whatever rapport you two have going on. I only ask that you please refrain from making googly eyes during classtime. There are no points for participation – or deductions for lack thereof – but I'd appreciate it if you at least pretend to be engaged while I'm talking."
Flinching, Tim tried not to look at Stephanie, lest she take the comment the wrong way. Something in him sensed it was too late though, as she held a hand over her mouth to hide a gleaming grin and a knowing glint in her eye.
"As for the timing of your entrance, so long as it doesn't become a repeat event, a few late arrivals or absences won't make a difference. Just please be more punctual if you do decide to show up. …If it's simply going to be a waste of both our time though you needn't bother. Again, the attendance policy here isn't mandatory, and I daresay you don't have to be present in order to pass. You seem to know your stuff, and your examination grades are excellent. Exceptional, even. I would surmise you'd likely do well in this course with or without my coaching."
Tim cocked his head quizzically in confusion, unsure if he was being complimented or not.
"So… What's this about then?"
"I just wanted to check if everything was copacetic regarding your… other classes. Seems you took a rather nasty tumble in laboratory."
"Oh. Yeah, everything's fine." Tim tilted back in relief, but the clasp on his carrier strap tautened. "I'm not sure what came over me, to be honest."
"…All right. I'd listen to your girlfriend though if I were you. Young people like you need to eat and sleep right. I know college can be demanding, but it's no good to overwork yourself to the point of exhaustion."
"She's not my-" He sighed, suspending himself to save time. "I understand."
"Good. That's all I wished to discuss with you. …I still have some business with you though, Ms. Brown. I'd like to see you in my office later to review your recent quiz scores."
"Ehhh?"
"Don't give me that innocuous look. You've already received several warnings. This course may not be required for non-ECE majors, but I'd hate for you to have to fail an introductory elective in your first year. …Actually, since you two seem to be already acquainted, perhaps Mr. Drake here can give you some pointers."
Tim had already begun to tiptoe off, slyly sidling, edging towards the exit. Unfortunately the evasive maneuver wasn't expeditious enough though (he really hadn't rehearsed his stealth techniques in a while), as he could feel beseeching eyes boring into the back of his skull. He rotated and gulped, racking his cerebrum for other reasons to elude.
"I'm… not really good at teaching others."
"Give it some thought, at least? You're clearly a very smart young man, and others could benefit from sharing your expertise. I'm sure you could lead a group study session – or even the entire class – if you wanted to."
Stephanie nodded sagely in agreement, making obvious pointed gestures towards herself.
"I'll… think about it."
"Fair enough, far be it from me to pressure you. You're both free to go for now. Ms. Brown, I expect to see you after you've made an appointment to go over the algorithm module. You know my office hours."
"Sure do, Professor. I bet I even know its location better than this place by now."
Steph chirped sardonically.
"How about let's lose the attitude when we come, hm? We can do without sarcasm, thank you."
As the two took their leave, Stephanie consulted her planner again.
"Philosophy, ugh… That's over in the other wing, isn't it? Guess I gotta jet again, thanks to Professor Hardass. Which way are you going?"
Without even referring to his roster, Tim indicated in the opposite direction.
"I suppose this is where we part ways then. …Hopefully I'll see you around?"
"Yeah. See ya."
"…'Kay, bye."
"'Kay, bye."
Stephanie waved as she dashed off at a jog, though Tim didn't reciprocate. He stood stationary as the rest of the world filtered around him in grayed out motion, watching her bobbing bumblebee locks recede into the hive as he laced a limb through his own.
Busy girl.
Noisy too.
Meddlesome.
She'd just be an annoyance.
Good riddance.
He looked down at the hand she had held (shaken, shaking) – a hand that had held a gun once – pulled the trigger and the plug on another's life – and compressed with conviction.
It's better this way.
Yet there was a gnarled pit growing in his gut. He felt foul for trampling on her compassion, however misplaced it may be.
Females are such fragile creatures after all. …But then young boys are even more brittle, aren't they?
…
Besides, she just wants to use you. Just like Bats used you, am I right? Abused you, then tossed you aside – cast away like some piece of broken trash. How cruel of Crusoe! To make his Robin son into a Friday slave, only to discard in the end. Ditched for dead just like your old man.
…That's not true.
Come now, don't be fooled. She probably just pities you.
Shut up.
Face it, you ain't good enough for her, or anyone else. Don't read too deep into it, kid.
I'm not a kid. Not anymore.
Little college boy, all grown up, eh? But you'll always be my darling child, JJ. Don't forget, Daddy loves you. I'm the only one who ever really will. No one can adore you like I do.
"I said 'SHUT UP'!"
He spun around to confront the cackling clown, only to find himself faced with a mob of discernibly disturbed bystanders, gasping in aghast. Abashed by the outburst, he lowered his countenance and pushed past them, plowing through walls of whispers, glowering and growling at any person blocking his path until they parted.
He could still hear the ghost's gloating chant, a haunting, hovering melody. Symphony for the devil. The mocking singsong resembled a siren, beckoning between a rock and a hard place, taunting and tickling ivory in the back of his consciousness. Pianissimo. Like an unforgettable cartoon jingle, an Acme assurance – indestructible as a roadrunner. ("That coyote is really a crazy clown.")
Honestly, who needs an affair – some silly filly to play second fiddle – when you've got me? Ardor is arduous, I say. Too messy, too much of a hassle. I, on the other hand, will always be there for you. My love for you is unconditional. Undying, even.
Go away. You're not real. Just some goddamn figment.
Does the nature of my existence really matter? I'm a part of you now. We're intertwined, destined to be together. You and I are real partners for life, old chum – the new and improved Dynamic Duo. Forever and always.
You're dead. I killed you. Leave me alone.
Oh, I'm not going anywhere, JJ. I've settled in for the long haul. Now that I've gotten cozy and put my feet up, you could say this old jester's just resting – investing for the future. Get used to it, 'cuz we're gonna be roomies for quite a while. We'll have a grand old time, more fun than some fleeting fling, I guarantee.
Humor hummed by his lobe, an alien invader probing his headspace. Crawling, creeping, writhing, wriggling – giggling – wrapping around his cortex like a slithering snake. Parasitic earworm burrowing deep into instrumental rosewood, nestling amongst sinew and frets. Imbedding and insinuating, striking sinister chords and pounding against his eardrums. Resonating within his organs until they itched to regurgitate.
Bolting for the bathroom, Tim turned on the faucet of the nearest sink, groping frantically for the knob as he dunked his scalp under the stream, trying to drown out the delusion via deluge. Wash away the jeering, sneering smirk, lurking and leering over him. He stayed submerged for a good long minute, counting each interval. As he lifted to examine his drenched, dripping reflection, slick and sickening, he had to conquer the impulse to vomit in the toilet as well. Exorcise vile essence through bile. (…For all his wretched retching though, there wasn't even any substance to expel. No way to counteract the malicious sorcerer's everlasting spell.)
He leaned and thudded his thumping forehead against the cool tile, dizzy and dismal, shuddering with dry heaves and half-hiccupping sobs. Choking back laughter and tears, mirth and melancholy. His knees buckled, and he had to adhere to the counter to keep from cringing, crumble into a frail crumpled heap on the floor – a sullied, sullen, sunken wreck. Watching water drain down the basin in spellbinding swirls. (…Contemplating adding blood to the pool by slicing his wrist's hide with the pocketblade he always kept stashed on his person, just in case. Anything to keep the beast's venom at bay.)
His hallucination was right. What right did a basket case – a murderer – have to count eggs before they hatched? There was no way an ugly lame duck like him could blend in amongst blooming, beautiful swans (or bats), let alone be the hero who rescues the princess. How could he swoop in and save damsels – or anyone – in distress when he was the one under duress? Sanity under siege, seized by a malevolent clown prince for the forces of evil. To scale the fortress of solitude and defeat all the inner demons he unleashed was impossible. …Such stories only exist in fairytales, and his was doomed to be a tragedy. Misery.
Wiping signs of sentiment from his ducts, he splashed baptism a couple more times, dampening to distill any volatile components. Soaking and saturating in sanitizing soap – scouring sanity and dour exterior – before drying off completely. He spent some more time correcting and adjusting his cover, checking to make sure his face was properly in place (that the paleness was in fact his own complexion's hue and not someone else's), solemn gravitas still intact so that nothing stood out. Conserve, conceal. Keep cool. Keep calm. Keep "clean".
At length, he managed to quell queasiness and master his legs, mustering strength to stagger outside to the campus courtyard, where he inhaled deep rasps of air. Taking in the panoramic of teeming post-teens, going about their trivial, typical routines without so much as giving him a second glance. …Including a couple going at it in broad display by the fountain, rubbing in their goddamn mating ritual like animals. His head was still reeling as he skulked by the lovers' bench towards a gazebo designated for loners, trying his best to snub both PDA and "parental" supervision. Fend off sweet nothings by dodging behind a smokescreen, float away on a cloud of nicotine. (…So much for staying "sober".)
Remember the "Plan".
It's just you and me, kiddo.
Forever.
He really could use that cigarette right now.
You've got your passion, you've got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?
BTAS Tim is a great big ball of identity crisis. Is he Jason or Tim or JJ idk. (Answer: He is all of the above.)
Next: Everyone's favorite acrobat makes an appearance~ ;O