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"One, two, three, one, two, three- Master Bruce, if you would please refrain from your 'Brucie' complex for a tad bit longer, that would be most pleasant," Alfred scolded, sending Jason into mocking laughter.
"Hmn. I haven't done...much in the way of Brucie lately, I do need the practice," Bruce rebuttled carefully.
Tim shared a look with Cass, the two of them grinning quietly at the other. 'Brucie Wayne' was the number one source of emotional blackmail. The great and competent Batman, drinking shrimp from a champagne flute, asking if there was pb&j on the food platters, putting on stick-on acrylic nails at the table. Really, it was genuinely incredible what Bruce did to maintain his image. Of course, it wasn't as intense as it had once been when Bruce acquired children. He didn't even have to fake-drink anymore, which he probably greatly appreciated. Tim thought it was funny, especially watching from afar, seeing him get 'drunk' and put his shoes on his hands and try to do a walking handstand. "Must you perform in such a humiliating manner, Father," Damian huffed, "It is unbecoming of you."
"That's exactly why he does it," Dick told him, "Everyone thinks he's too stupid to understand what they're doing."
"That's why Mr. Blanchett got arrested for the poaching charges," Tim agreed as he fell into a familiar waltz step with Cass, "He didn't notice Bruce listening in because Bruce was under the table 'looking for a spoon he thought he dropped in his shoe'."
Jason cackled, "Brucie's gotta have a little bit of truth if that's the lie you came up with, you stupid ass bat."
"Excellent form, Lady Cassandra, dear Tim," Alfred complimented, completely ignoring Jason's insults, "Master Dick, if you would not relax your back quite so much, that would be most helpful to your form."
"It's weird for my back to be so stiff," Dick groaned, stretching his back out.
"Well, you can relax somewhat," Alfred allowed, his lip twitching in amusement, "Just not quite so much. Mind your shoulders now."
Jason popped an M&M in his mouth and taunted, "Yeah, mind your shoulders, Dickhead."
"We shall proceed to finish this last practice session with the masks," Alfred announced, producing a small box from off the side of what used to be Dick's upstairs acrobatics and gymnastics training room and Cass's at-home ballet studio.
Tim observed the masks the others had chosen. Cass would be wearing a sheer black veil that reached her chin, hiding her face behind shimmering black fabric that looked like spider webs that attached to a circlet. Dick's Phantom of the Opera-like mask was made out of black wires with colored glass glinting between the empty spaces of the wires. Damian had a simple white ceramic domino mask. Bruce had a black metal mask, carefully crafted and cut to resemble a skull with missing mandibles, which he would probably ask Alfred to apply to his lower jaw with make-up. Drama king. "Wait, Tim, where's your's," Dick asked peering into the box.
"I have to go pick it up," Tim replied, checking the time quickly, the cemetery would be closing soon.
"Tt. Procrastinating," Damian sneered, "Your laziness is truly astounding considering this ridiculous ball is tomorrow."
"Not really, I just need to go to my family's mausoleum," Tim corrected, "I was just waiting till I was sure Catwoman was out of town for that one diamond cat statue. I'd rather she not hear that one of the crypts got opened."
"Why the fuck is your mask at a mausoleum," Jason snorted, throwing an M&M at Tim's head.
Tim caught it in his mouth (red, nice) as Jason probably(?) intended and answered, "It was my mother's. I thought I'd wear it for the All Hallows Eve ball this time."
"You're dressing as a dead woman," Damian jeered.
Something cold flared in Tim's chest. "Yes," he said proudly, "I am. I will."
Because he had heard the stories from Janet as she readied herself for the All Hallows Eve ball, as she poured transluscent glitter powder into her hair and sharply drew eyeliner across her eyelids and her mouth was stained wine red, about the ones who wore the mask before her. Tim sat by her feet as she repeated to him the stories she was told while Tim's father hunted for a very specific watch he never managed to find by leaving time. Her own mother, Malinda Drake, wore it, so did her grandmother Delilah Drake, her great great grandmother Eloise Edmund-Drake, and so on, all the way back to the Milady Morgane Drake. It was a gift from her father, the pirate, Captain Charles-Timothy Drake. One of the few Drake men in the mostly matriarchal line. And now it was Tim's turn to wear the mask, as proudly and gracefully as his mother did. Hopefully. "Do bring it over if you require help with polishing it," Alfred instructed, "I suppose you need not much more practice. You should go retrieve your mask."
"Yeah," Tim agreed, "The cemetery is closing soon anyways and Kon's catsitting Dex for me. I'll be over by lunch tomorrow to get ready."
"Drive safe, Timmy," Dick called before sweeping Damian off in a silly waltz that the youngest loudly complained about while visibly squeezing Dick's hands harder.
'We'll get ready together,' Cass insisted, squeezing his hands.
"Absolutely," Tim promised, "You can do my hair or my nails or something."
"Hey, Half Pint, catch," Jason yelled, chucking his bag of M&Ms at Tim's face, "Don't fucken die at the cemetery or else I'll make fun of you at your funeral."
The bag smacked into Tim's nose. "Thanks," he deadpanned, slipping out the door.
There were no green M&Ms in the bag. Tim popped an orange M&M in his mouth and hopped in his car. He had to get to Bristol Private Cemetery.
Tim twisted his ring in the small impression in the padlock on the heavy iron doors. The padlock unlocks with a soft click and Tim pushes the doors open. The air is a little damp and cold as he descends the stairs, the doors groaning as they slowly snap behind him and leave him in the dark. Tim huffs as he clicks on his phone's flashlight, unwilling to snap his own neck going down the stone steps, "Really?"
His footsteps echo around the mostly empty, underground room. Here, it's just him, stone, and the bones. "Greetings, bones," Tim whispered, "I might sleep here too, someday."
A bleak but honest thought. A realistic thought. He brushed his fingers over the foot of Captain Charles' statue that guarded the rows of raised stone coffins, each with a small inscription and a chest at the foot of the coffin. He peeked in Milady Morgane Drake's chest of heirlooms, just to see if she really did have a collection of Grimoires she curated over her 105 years of life. All 7 giant books laid there in stacked rows, heavy leather-bound things that were sporting a thick layer of dust. He wandered past his grandmother's chest of things, knowing that the book of herbal poisons rested there safely and unused in...a couple years. Probably ten years unused. He was only here for his mother's mask that particular day. Their mask. And what a mask it was. A colombina mask carved from thin, dark silver metal, the same as his ring, it looked like it had been made out of thorny blackberry brambles tightly pulled together, the bodies of serpents weaving between the branches with silver-carved blood dripping where the thorns pierced carefully etched scales. The heads of the snakes poked out opposite sides with gaping mouths where the connective chains that went around the back were attached. Tiny blackberry blossoms were imprinted around the upper lid area of the mask in a row from corner to corner. Across the back hung four filligree chains that would keep the mask in place when he put it on, jingling brightly when they clinked together. It sat cool in his palms. "Thank you," he murmured to the tomb, "Pleasant resting."
Tim clutched the mask to his chest with one hand, the other holding his phone out so he could find the stairs. Even the weak, grey light through the cloud cover hanging over outer Bristol felt bright compared to the inky depths of the Drake Mausoleum. The actual mausoleum, not the place he grew up in, just to clarify. The padlock snapped in place easily, the iron doors sealed shut tight once again. Tim wove through the handful of headstones on the plot of land. There were actually a small gathering of family crypts that stood on the property rather than rows of headstones. If he squinted, he might be able to see Jason's headstone, one of the few that stood out in the open. Jason was buried there afterall. Tim turned away. He'd pay his mother a visit again on Christmas. His father was among the headstones, clustered in a plot behind the crypt where his grandfather and a number of other assorted Drake spouses were buried. Tim would visit him too. Tim's thinking about death a lot here. He makes his way put of the cemetery and drives off. The mask sits on his lap, as cold and dusty as the crypt he took it from. "Hey Malik, did you enjoy your...trip," Tim greeted when he spotted Malik behind the desk.
"Yep," Malik beamed, "Had a great time, Boss. Very relaxing. Have I ever mentioned that crushing spiders is cathartic?"
Tim grinned back at him. "I thought it would be. Remember to take your break, Malik!"
"Take your own advice, Boss," Malik hollered as Tim hopped in the elevator up to his apartment.
Tim felt like he'd been doing nothing but take breaks. Although..."Dex," Tim called, "Pspspsps, Dexter, I'm home, kitty!"
The kitty was still pretty fricking awesome. Dexter came barelling down the hall, meowing loudly. "Dexter, you kicked me in my throat," Kon groaned as he stumbled down the hall, rubbing his eyes.
"Were you taking a nap," Tim laughed as he tried to walk while Dex rumbled purrs and wove between his legs.
Kon huffed, "I was till Dex kicked me in my throat with his big ol' jaguar paws 'nd woke me up."
"Dex, were you a good kitty today," Tim asked, scratching behind Dexter's ear.
The thunderous purr and soft chrrp was enough answer for Tim. "Of course you were," Tim agreed, "Did...wait, did you give Dex a bath?"
Tim had been meaning to give Dexter a bath but Dexter straight up disappeared when he saw the kitty shampoo in Tim's hand. "Yep," Kon yawned, "Clipped his nails and trimmed his hair too. 'S not super professional but I didn't jack him up, I think. He was no worse than Horseshoe, that damn menace. Complained the whole time but he doesn't mind warm water as much as he pretends to, ain't that right, Dex?"
Something warm and bubbly-feeling spilled across Tim's cheeks as he grinned at Kon. He hadn't wanted to scare Dex by taking him to a groomer outright and get him used to baths first. But Dex had gone a while without a bath and hardly had getting trimmed on his kitty mind while he was pursuing revenge. He was going to try again and get it done tonight but Kon took care of it for him. "He smells like a clean kitty," Tim said, "Thank you, Kon. Do you want dinner?"
"Please," Kon muttered, slumping over.
"Go back to sleep, I'll make something, let me just put my stuff away." Tim waved his best friend off to the couch or Tim's bedroom, whichever Kon would take.
"Nah, I'll put on a movie or somethin'," Kon decided, "I'm thinkin' Prikcess Mononoke?"
"Sounds good," Tim agreed, "Shit!"
The mask slipped out from between his fingers, Tim barely managing to catch it on the end of his foot. "Damn," Kon said, "That yours'?"
"Mhm, hold on." Tim tucked Dexter in one arm and reached for the mask. "It was my mother's mask."
"Oh, for your fancy-pants party," Kon teased.
Tim flicked his shoulder, jokingly scolding him, "I invited you to come with me, bastard."
"Nah," Kon snorted, "I'll take cat-sitting any day. You go to your rich boy party, Wonder, I'm gonna give Dexter catnip and watch him knock shit over."
"Don't give him catnip or I'll feed you helium," Tim warned, mostly kidding.
Helium, as they had discovered back when they were Young Just Us, was the Kryptonian equivalent of catnip. What a fucking day that was. Tim had no clue Kon hated Sea World so much. Actually, Tim didn't know Kon knew what Sea World was, but he did and he blatantly despised the establishment on principle. "Kay, kay, fine," Kon relented, smiling, "But if you see dear ol' Lexie would you-"
"Terrorize him and make him feel antagonistic grief about existing," Tim guessed, "Of course. I'll try and get it on camera."
"Have I ever told you that you're my favorite person," Kon cackled, "Go change and clean that thing. It's got dust all over."
Cassandra sat on the chair by the foyer, waiting. It was almost noon. She had only been to one of these...parties before. Tim was at her side then as well. He got ready with her, holding her hand steadily as he brushed black polish across her fingernails and Babs brushed her hair gently. "Cain," Damian greeted stiffly as he clutched his ceramic mask that had been painted a glistening, iridescent black stained with deep, dark green and midnight blue swirling in the pitch color.
She frowned. Cassandra was a Wayne, not a Cain. She had never been a Cain. 'I am Wayne, not Cain,' she corrected him, 'Cain is not me.'
"Do you deny your heritage," Damian asked, his fingers tightening on his mask.
"No," she told him, 'I know what hate I could have been. But I accept the love that I am instead. W-A-Y-N-E.'
She fingerspells her last name to herself. Her Dad gave her that gift. Barbara and her friends give her that gift. Her brothers give her that gift. Just by saying her name. "...Cassandra," Damian says after a beat, "Are you preparing for this farce?"
Cassandra remembers the party she went to. The hundres thousand eyes trying to cut her open, pry into her skin and flesh, sink teeth into her skeleton. It was no farce. It was dancing with demons. 'It is more dangerous than you think, Damian. Don't think everyone is frivolous. Confidence is only confidence till it is arrogance,' she warned.
The door cracked open and Damian, reflexively, flung a dagger at the door. Tim smoothly snatched it out of the air and examined it. "I don't think this is supposed to be out of the Cave," he commented lightly, toying with the blade absentmindedly.
"Oh, hey Cass, hey champ," Conner called as he poked his head inside over Tim, "Just droppin' him off. Call me when you want a pick up. I'll be there, Wonder."
Cass sighed silently as Tim squeezed Conner's hand with his own before Conner slipped back outside fully and the door snapped shut. Somedays, all she could see was the cruelty in peoples' bones, in the hands and eyes of people who lived in mansions and demanded higher prices on their things, demanded money people didn't have. Somedays all she could see was the weariness, the hopeless exhaustion of the people she saved at night, the I-give-up-I'm-too-tired. She could see a hundred million things that made her wish the body was not her most fluent language. But there were the singular moments that made her impossibly happy that she could see that warm brightness in her brothers' eyes. The soft, relaxed slope of Tim's shoulders and lightness in his hands as he stayed in that one brief hand squeeze. Cass smiled fondly. Silly, silly, that loving boy. His ribcage would shatter someday if he kept loving so much. It's okay. Cass would help him build a better one. "Tt. Drake, my dagger," Damian hissed.
"It goes to the Cave," Tim insisted, "...You did a good job on your mask, Damian. The paint's beautiful."
"I demand my dagger back," Damian spat, "You condescending whelp!"
"Damian, you won't be stabbed at the ball. Stabbing at a party like this is considered gauche. Watch your drink instead," Tim advised, "Cass, I brought acrylics. Do you want them or should I give them to Bruce?"
"I'll take," Cass decided, standing up and stretching.
Tim carried the dagger to a small basket in the hallway where Alfred would collect it. There were four in there already. Tim brought out his mask with a small fabric bag of things he collected to bring over. Their clothes were in their rooms already. "Mask," she asked.
Tim offered the silvery mask to her in both of his palms, shining under the light in her room. It looked pretty. Sharp. Threatening. 'It suits you,' Cass signs to Tim.
"I want...," Tim pauses before continuing, more sure this time, "I want to look like my Mother tonight. It was her's, afterall."
'Then you should,' Cass insists, 'If you want it. Do it.'
Tim pulls two different tubes of concealer and holds out the darker one to her. His teeth gleam sharp behind the curve of his mouth as he says, "I will, then."
Cassandra takes her time to get ready, Tim following her pace. Her hair, she washed it in the morning before Tim came over. It smells like lemons and vanilla, like the cake Alfred made for her 17th birthday. Cass brushes Tim's hair, sliding her fingers through the fine strands carefully so she can unsnarl the tiny tangles. It's a little trimmed but still long, with his bangs cut long so precisely. She thinks it fits him. Tim gently combs her hair too, her choppy bob, humming under his breath. 'What song,' Cass questions, closing her eyes serenely.
"Something my grandmother heard once, long ago. She taught it to my mother," Tim replies, sliding the comb through her hair, "It was a skipping tune the neighborhood kids made up about her. It went, um, 'Malinda Drake, in Crescent Hill. Malinda Drake, who'd you kill? Alistair Drake, where'd he go? Malinda Drake put him down below. Was it poison? Was it a stab? Is he buried 'neath a stone slab? Watch out for that witch on Crescent Hill. Else you'll be her next kill.' It was- my Mother, she thought it was funny. She would always sing it when she got ready for the All Hallows Eve ball."
Cass tilted her head back, opening her eyes to meet Tim's. 'Did she,' Cass asked.
Tim swallowed, then whispered, "She did."
'Did your mother ever do it,' Cass asked, letting her hands ask secrets that Tim knew would stay between her sunshine yellow walls and the fluffy rug they sat on.
"Well," Tim started to say, "Can I tell you a story?"
Cass nodded and Tim continued, uncapping the nail polish and starting on her toes, "Once there was a man named Alistair. He was the son of a minorly wealthy family, but he was only son, which made him a bit more important. He was utterly infatuated with Malinda Drake The business was proving lucrative and Malinda Drake needed a figurehead to rule her family business. So she let him court her and marry her. They had one daughter, and would only ever have one daughter, much to Alistair's anger. He wanted a bunch of sons. It was a thing; none of my ancestors ever had a sibling, and the majority of them were women. I'm not particularly sure why. Malinda was proud of her daughter but she was also...the way she raised her daughter wasn't raising so much as teaching, I guess? She was a mentor, a guide, but not- not a mom. And Alistair wasn't a father or a protector. He was an abuser, and Malinda's daughter wasn't ever told to tell. She kept her silence. Till Malinda came home early one day and saw Alistair hitting her daughter, as he did everyday, degrading her and hating her. And Malinda was angry. Not just angry. She was furious, enraged. She asked her daughter and for once, her daughter spoke up. And Alistair Drake took coffee every morning, and Malinda knew that. Her daughter and Malinda would drink blackberry tea every morning and he would drink coffee and one morning after a year of being ill, when he was especially foul, he dropped dead. Right in the middle of yelling, my mother told me. And Malinda taught Janet something very important that day: words mean things. Use them when you must, but when there is no reason, there is action. So, my grandmother up on Crescent hill, her husband Alistair she did kill."
Cass observes Tim, who finishes painting her last small toe neatly. He isn't...ashamed. There is no shame in his palms and nose, where he usually carries it, there is no disgust in the curve of his arms. He is. He just is. It is not Timmy, but it was someone who is his. 'Did Janet teach you things,' Cassandra wonders.
"My mother taught me many things," Tim said, swiping glittering black polish across the clear acrylic that would plaster to her fingernails, "She taught me everything her mother taught her and then some. But she also let me teach myself. She...she would travel a lot. With my Father. She would let me learn on my own and I learned. I learned a hundred million things she won't ever get to but I'm still learning from Janet even when she's gone. I used to think she didn't like me, even if she did love me. I think, nowadays, she left because she loved me. I think I was the only living person she had ever truly loved and that's why she would convince my father to keep leaving because she wanted me to be like her and like myself at the same time."
"Father," she croaked her question.
Tim laughed quietly, "I'm my mother's son."
She let her nails dry, shimmering, glittery black. Then, Tim pulled out his own things. He dipped a small brush in transluscent giltter and brushed the fine powder across his hair, from roots to ends. He swiped soft pink blush across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Smudged black eyeliner pencil stained his lower eyelids and knife sharp liquid swooped across his upper eye lid, followed by smokey grey powder, with hints of deep, deep red at the inner corners. With each brush and stroke, his body shifted. Cass watched her Timmy set his shoulders and spine mindlessly to mimic someone she did not know, but he did. His chin raised, proud and challenging and defiant. Then, he picked up a tube of lipstick. It was the color of veinous blood, viscous and dark. He weilded it like a knife, slashing his mouth like a blade sliding across skin, drawing red across it till everything was bloody-dark. "Your turn," Tim-not-Tim told her.
'You are someone else,' Cass commented.
Tim's smile, gory and sharp, agreed, "For tonight? I'm my mother."
Dick patted Damian's head, his littlest brother scowling and batting his hand away. "Where are Drake and Cain," Damian snapped, "They must have finished by now."
"Hmn. We can be a little late," Bruce muttered, fixing the black raven feather in his tophat.
"I wish to get this over with," Damian hissed.
"We can go," Tim drawled as he appeared with Cass's arms linked through his.
That didn't look like Tim. Dick hates Gala Tim. Gala Tim doesn't look like or act like Tim. No Star Wars or Studio Ghibli references, no awkward messy buns in his long hair, no awkward sweetness to his tone. Cass wears all black, in fluffy, fluttery layers of tulle and petticoats and high ribbony collars, ruby jewelry gleaming at her ears and fingers, her circlet too. Her Mary Janes click in time with Tim's heeled black boots. But at least Dick can see Cass under all that fluffy flutteriness, spider web-like veil, and the black lipstick and tearfully artistic dripping eyeliner. Sapphire jewelry, the gift from Bruce, studs Tim's earlobes, all the piercings he gave himself embedded with silver and blue jewelry. Filligree chains rattle at his neck and wrists, uniform dark silver colors. Even his mask matches, a brightly dark thing with sharp metal thorns. That ring he wears permanently these days twinkles in unison. The black Victorian poets blouse (and Dick double checks the laces were drawn tightly closed, relieved to see they're firmly tied shut and revealing nothing, even the high collar cinched up to the middle of Tim's throat) and pants make his little brother look pale as a ghost, if it were not for that awful, grisly red stain across his mouth. "That's- red," Dick coughs, he doesn't like Gala Tim.
"A different red than my mother's, but it was the only time of year she wore red lipstick," Gala Tim stated, "I thought it was appropriate."
A cold smile cuts Tim's- Gala Tim's face. This Gala Tim feels particularly off. "You...hrn, you look like your...mother," Bruce grunted, the white of his make up already making him seem like he went frightfully pale at the sight of Tim.
"Tonight, I am her," Tim said, and Dick could see his eyes, that same blue he knew made unfamiliar with the distant irreverance they contained.
"You are a woman," Damian snickered.
Tim's bloody red lip curled disdainfully. "No, but I am her legacy, and her sequel, and her ghost."
Tim glided off, letting his hands fall from Cass's. Then he turned back and told Damian, sweet like cyanide's smell, "And I say that with as much pride as you have, Damian."
'He is his mother tonight,' Cass commented, 'I can see it. I never met her. But she is here tonight.'
Cass floated after Tim, black lips curving serenly. Tim had never been less like himself.
Dick does a thing at these parties. He sashays and laughs boisterously, jokes and entertains and entices. His family doesn't need to be gazed upon, not when Dick can take that burning spotlight off of them. It doesn't make him anxious the eay it does them. Sometimes, he feels icky, the hands on him and his back and shoulders and chest. But he is gilded in performace garb, the same way he was born. The dim golden lights of Aradia Hall catch the stained glass of the shards between his wire mask and create rainbows as he walks. He's dressed like a classier, deep blue and black themed Phantom of the Opera with moonstones in his ears and on his fingers and wrists and pinned in his hair. Pearls, tiny and actually made of glass instead of being harvested from oysters, in a swirling choker of deep blue and black and pale silver clack around his neck. "Richie, I swear, you get more handsome everytime we see you," Mrs. Whitney titters.
Dick laughs, joyful and bright, "But you never seem to get older."
Mrs. Whitney blushes brightly, then, suddenly, her face drains of color. She coughs, strangled, "Janet."
He follows her gaze to Tim, swaying with Cass on the floor. Dick is quick to reassure her, "No, no, that's just Tim."
Wasn't Tim's mom a blonde, anyways? "Oh. He- that is? Janet's boy," Mrs. Whitney questions, "I suppose Janet did have blonde hair."
It happens a lot. That whisper of surprise 'Janet' and once or twice 'Lady Malinda?'. Tim dances with Cass and only Cass, a few times till they both part ways for their separate missions: Cass tracks the food platters and Tim starts off on the old, pompous men in the room specifically. This new Gala Tim is so weird. He's bold and giggles all sweet and high, wheedling when he speaks, always leading to one particular point or another. He's so...wrong. Disjointed. That isn't Dick's little brother. That's someone else wearing his face for the night. Something round nails Dick in the eye, hard and fast. "Ow," he hisses, scanning the crowd for whatever the Hell that was.
"Ha, 10 points to me," Jason lazily chortles, dressed as a waiter with a plain white full face mask with pumpkin canapes on a plate.
"Aren't you supposed to be dead to the public, Little Wing," Dick grouses, eyeing Jason's white streak.
Jason snorts, "Exactly why I'm here, Big Bird. I've got several M&Ms right down the Bat-stard's throat while he was laughing. Dear ol' Brucie's had a number of coughing fits tonight."
'Brucie', currently, has stolen the cage of love birds from Mr. Betchler's hair pouf and is absconding with said fowls. "I'll give you a twenty if you get him with the butterscotch pudding," Dick bargained.
Jason accepted immediately, "Done."
Damian slunk over, adjusting his mask. "Richard," he hissed, "These people...these creatures, they harrass me."
Dick kneeled down, furrowing his brow. "Tell me what's happening," he directs.
"Some people crowd me and began to speak to me as though I wasn't there," Damian snarled, "Their commentary was...derogatory. about my age and height, about my mother. Then they attempted to convince me to attend a private party hosted on the actual occasion of All Hallows Eve."
The ball for All Hallows Eve was usually held three days before the actual day to cut off most of the rogue attack plans. But there were typically private parties held by other elite members. Bruce was oddly never invited but Dick had been invited plenty. Alfred and Bruce warned he must never go. Alfred never said why but Bruce had been told he couldn't go either when he was younger. "Are you okay," Dick worries.
Damian gnashes his teeth. "Drake," he spits, "Is with the whelps. He is cavorting with them."
Dick turns but he doesn't see Tim, not at all.
Tim had never felt more like his mother in his life. It's like she's standing behind him, curling her hand on her shoulder. Janet Drake, tyrant. Janet Drake, venomous snake. Janet Drake, his mother. "Mr. Thimby," he greets sweetly, "I've heard your wife just had her baby. How is she?"
He knows Mr. Donald Thimby is cheating on Mrs. Rachel Thimby but now he has an heir, a son, and Ms. Nancy Thorpe is holding their affair over his head. He likes seeing the man squirm under the weight of his mistakes tickling at the back of his mind. "She is- well, our son is- my, you look like your mother," Mr. Thimby stammers, "The, uh, spitting image?"
"Don, you ninny," the elderly Ms. Feld scolds, "Of course he looks like her! Moreover, he looks like Malinda."
Lady Malinda, murderess. Lady Malinda, daughter of a witch. Lady Malinda, his grandmother. Tim smiles gratefully. "Thank you, Lady Feld," Tim breezily laughs, "To hear that is a gracious compliment."
His grandmother, he remembers from the brief meeting he had with her, favoured bergundy lipstick. His mother, wine red. But this is him, something not them, but similar. Blood red. It's not as tacky feeling as lip gloss, more vibrant and less sticky like glue on his mouth. The mask feels comfortable sitting where it is on his face. How much of her he is tonight. How much of his grandmother he is tonight. How much of himself he is. "-unhand me! How dare you even touch me! Disgusting, crass-," he hears close by.
Damian is being encircled by a group of other socialites. Tim had been spared that from age 6 till he was 11 and able to properly discourage any clustering on his own. "Apologies," Tim excused himself.
"Contact me, Mr. Wayne, we should discuss investing in your project," Mr. Thimby offered.
"Hello," Tim interrupted, "Damian. Richie would like to speak to you. He's over with that waiter."
Tim pointed to Dick early talking with Jason. "Ah," a woman gasped, backing away from the silver in Tim's ears and on his wrists, glaring at the silver on his face, "I simply wanted to have his name."
Have his name? Hmph. He knows those tricks. "You may call him Mr. Wayne," Tim replied stonily, "May I have your name?"
The half black half red mouth sneered, "No."
"My mistake, it was abominably rude of me to demand your name like that," Tim blandly stated.
The woman slunk off into a dancing circle. "And will you give us your name," someone asked from the small crowd, "We shall invite you to a private party."
"Will you give me yours'," Tim redirected coolly, "For keeping?"
Grumbles smattered the small clustering, and the gleam of silver split them apart. He knew what those private parties were for. Fae summoning, attempting to break the veil between. For what? A deal that would only end in misery? Tim knows those too well. Moreover, there were the misconstrued Samhain hostings that were done by idiots who did not understand the celebration at all. Botched summonings of demons and sacrifices of blood. Tim knew what those private parties were for. Damian didn't know. For all the training his mother's League of Shadows put him through, Talia had never lived through Gotham's elite. Reports would never live up to the experience. "Timothy Dr- oh, Wayne," Mrs. Marchend called, holding her visard mask up to her face so she could speak, "My, look at you! You even chose to wear Janet's mask!"
Tim smiled curtly. "Come now, we have a new friend to introduce you to," she insisted, "He's new money. But he is so charming! I think he would like you, Timothy!"
Two horns curved upwards from the upper corners of the mask, spiraling and carved from what must have been real gold, black painting real ivory that formed the mask. Black gems glittered lowly, carved in bands across the horns. Two horrible green, green eyes pinned Tim's face and a smile sleekly split across a mouth Tim wanted to yank the teeth from one by one. "Hello," Ra's purred, taking Tim's hand in his, "I am Rais Abadi. It is the highest pleasure to meet you."
Tim should have wanted to vomit. He should have wanted to scream. Cry. Run away. He probably should feel fear. Liquid nitrogen travelled through his bloodstream, freezing his thin bones and shattering them to splinters. His skeleton was being rebuilt in a nanosecond from pure ice. Deep, unequivocal fury pooled in his eyes. How dare he? This pathetic slop of dust, barely held together by a desperation for infinity? The wretched old thing that has caused Tim much more misery than should be allowed and has invaded his nightmares steps in front of Tim and kisses the back of his hand. The audacity. "Mr. Abadi," Tim returns, "Timothy Wayne. I can't say I've heard of you. I suppose I could have forgotten though?"
"Please, call me Rais, Timothy," Ra's croons, "I have been attempting to arrange a meeting with the Project Rebirth initiative and RaNewal Energy Co."
"I don't believe I saw your proposals," Tim frowns, curving his lip downwards apologetically, "Are you certain you had the correct email?"
"Must have been an employee dismissing your emails," Ra's dismisses, "Allow me to be a gentleman; may I dance with you?"
"How charming," Ms. Marchend exclaims, "You must, Timothy!"
Damn, four other people heard. He can't look rude right now. "Of course, sir," Tim accepts garciously.
The hands are on him. The hands are on him, again. "Rais, your hands are a bit low." Tim's smile is hollow and fake.
"You look most ravishing tonight, Detective," Ra' murmurs lowly as the symphony plays something dramatic and they waltz in tune, "A shame about such a high collar. It looks...less fashionable. Surely, you could loosen that?"
Ra's smiles back cleverly. Tim wants to make him burn alive. Better, he wants to drown him by hand in the Arctic seas. "No," Tim apologizes, "A true shame that I am unable to refit the collar."
The hand slides back down from between his shoulder blades to low on Tim's back. It's a humiliation tactic it has to be. Trying to make Tim trip up and falter because of the awful contact. "No matter," Ra's dismisses, his voice still quiet and meant for Tim's ears only, roving his gaze downwards, "I suppose it'd be a masaacre here if anyone were to see you as I have. You do remember the robe you wore in The Cradle?"
That stupid silky, slinky robe. It kept falling open. It was wrong. "Do I remember that your host skills were so abysmal you could not provide me with fitting clothing," Tim scoffed, "Yes. What do you want, Ra's? You cannot have W.E. nor Damian. I have gained more from you than you from me, and it was against your wishes as well. So what do you want?"
"You."
Tim wants these hands off him. He wants to fill those old, ancient veins with so many paralytics that Ra's heart collapses under the chemical weight. He wants to hold Ra's head under an ice floe and revel in the spasms of his body failing him and oxygen escaping him. "You, my Beloved Detective, your brain. Your body, for eother my dear sister or some inventive cloning methods, if your pet Super's existence is indicative of such technology is available. Your blood and mine could level nations," Ra's breathed, "Our blood, your brain and my power combined would rule the Universe. I could give you your deepest desires, if only you satisfy my wishes."
Janet's nails curled on his shoulder. She laughed, sardonic and condescending 'Where have we heard that before?' If Tim wanted the world, he'd take it on his own. What was he, stupid? He could do so on his own. Janet Drake, tyrant. Lady Malinda, murderess. Janet Drake, venomous snake. Lady Malinda, daughter of a witch. Janet Drake, his mother. Lady Malinda, his grandmother. Timothy Wayne (once Drake), liar. Timothy Wayne, viper. Timothy Wayne, all of them and himself as well. His mother sneers at Ra's in his head and he does outloud, "If I wanted that, I'd do it."
"With what power," Ra' drawls.
Tim smirks, the mask shifting like a metallic layer of skin, "The power I gained. I earned. The power you lost because you don't know how to treat people like human fucking beings. Maybe you're more Pit that person, more curse than man. I wonder how long you can run from Death till you can run no more, Ra's."
"Will you be the one to end me, my Beloved Detective," Ra's purred, "Send me to Heaven with your own hands?"
The song ended. Tim extracted himself from those hands. Green drilled into him, lingering and- and- salivating. Ra's hand raises to Tim's mask and abject terror rises to Tim's throat and dies just as fast as it appeared when the man recoils. Blood streaks his palm. He cut himself on the thorns of Tim's mask and oh, isn't that hilarious? Doesn't that mean something? "Oh, Ra's," Tim laughed, hollow, cruel, high, "If there is a God, you won't intrude upon me enough that I have to watch you die."
Tim bowed lightly, out of sheer politeness and nothing else. His blood was red, red because the man was ultimately mortal and Tim knew that Ra's al Ghul was just a coward questing from Death's infinite hands. "A long night to you, Rais Abadi," Tim bid him, turning away.
The curling horns dipped away and Tim unclenched his jaw. A hand brushed his shoulder, gentle and restrained. "Cass," Tim mumbled.
'You are feeling bad,' she observes, 'Need me?'
"Don't let anyone dance with me anymore," Tim replies hoarsely, taking a flute of sparkling water on a passing tray and sipping it.
"Come," she says, soothing him.
She ushers him to where the most waiters cross and they make a game of snatching snacks in the most elegant manner. They still get approached but Cass bears her spidery black veil and Tim clutches to whatever metal he is made of with his bloody red lipstick and the thorns on his mask that slice and cut even wannabe immortals' skin. It stains the silver of his mask, Ra's blood. To Tim, it shows the arrogance. Ra's can bleed, bleed from anywhere. Tim would never let Ra's win and make a killer of Tim but Tim knows too well now how to hurt without killing. How to wish to die but never being granted that relief. And maybe, with Tim being Janet, Tim being Malinda, Tim would watch and revel in that struggle. "The fuck happened," Jason muttered gesturing with a spoon of butterscotch pudding that had been used to catapult pudding into Brucie Wayne's open, laughing mouth.
Tim answers, "Someone was careless."
And that's the most truth Tim can say with his lips so bloody red and wearing the shadows of the dead that night.
Tim calls Kon and asks, "Pick me up?"
"As you wish," Kon replies, "I'll be there in 20. With Dex."
Tim laughs quietly, "Thank you. I can't believe you Primcess Bride'd me though."
He slides out into the soupy fog of the Gotham night with ease. "I wait," Cass declares, "With you."
She holds his hand, both of them still and the same. "You looked pretty tonight," he tells her and the dark.
'You look pretty too. Like Mother. Like yourself,' she signs to him and the fog, 'Bad things tonight?'
"I wanna go home," Tim says in lieu of confession, "Wanna stay or go?"
"Go," she decided, 'Exhausted. Bad food. Shoes.'
Tim laughs and touches the dried blood on his mask. Maybe he should leave it like this, a warning. A car horn honks and Tim and Cass stand together. "Let's go," Tim yawns.
"How was it," Kon asks, nudging his finger where the blood on the mask was, Dexter perched impressively on his shoulders.
Tim spilled blood. "Come with me next time," he suggests, "Lex wasn't here this time. Maybe next time you can terrorize him yourself."
Kon reaches out and slides Tim's mask off easily, and, suddenly, Tim is Tim. "Okay," Kon agrees.
Dex's greeting purr rumbles through the whole car and it's not for Janet or Malinda. It's for Tim. The mask is off.