The All-seeing One

Parties were always a bore, from the rich old white men who spew statistics and gloat their company to the young men and women of said old men who act ten times better than they really are.

Tim despises all of this. He's very rarely had a genuinely positive interaction with anyone in a gala, and he's been going to them since he was popped out of the womb by Janet Drake. And he's bound to continue attending them until he himself is one of the rich old men that spews statistics and gloats to the younger ones who'd rather be anywhere else than here.

Tonight the theme was Straight From The Painting - meaning guests were asked to dress up as a painting they adored. If Jason had been at this gala tonight Tim was sure he would have fitted The Fallen Angel painting by Alexandre Cabanel. Yet, he wasn't, and he wasn't planning on attending it so there was no use dwelling on it.

Tim was dressed as Along the River During the Qingming Festival by Zhang Zeduan a painting he was entranced by while scrolling aimlessly for a painting he could choose that others wouldn't have. From across the room he notes Damian barely hiding a scowl as an older woman gushes over how adorable he looks in his outfit inspired by Napoleon Crossing The Alps by Jacques-Louis David.

If Tim was to look more to the right he'd see Dick dressed in colours of red, blue, greens, yellows, and something mimicking slightly tanned skin colour. The outfit was revealing, but it's what the people want. His outfit is inspired by The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo. He's standing beside Bruce calmly, grinning without a word and bantering with the people around him. However, Tim knows Dick better than Dick knows himself, Tim can see the slight discomfort as someone touches his shoulder and leers at his form.

Bruce stands next to Dick, a flute of champagne in his hand as he talks to a woman older than him. His Brucie persona shining brighter than the chandelier lights above. Despite this, the painting his clothes were inspired by was rather macabre. The painting is called Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan by Ilya Repin. There's something ironic about the painting Bruce chose, but Tim wasn't about to voice it.

Tim is so lost in thought he doesn't notice the girl trying to speak to him - the girl who's starting to look peeved he was looking everywhere BUT her.

"Well, if you're just going to be an ass then I'll go talk to someone else." She huffs out, shoving his shoulder as she walks off. Tim blinks before cursing under his breath - bad impressions get out to the public far too easily. He turns and quickly grabs her wrist. "I'm so sorry, I promise I was just lost in thought!" He quickly tries to remedy.

-

You'd been having an awful night. First of all, some other guest had rocked up in an outfit based off of the same painting you had based your outfit on - which annoyed you to no end! It was completely disrespectful, you had spoken to the media about it as soon as the theme arose!

Then, some old raisin started talking about his son - who had funnily enough dressed inspired by Echo and Narcissus by John William Waterhouse. And the old fart wouldn't stop trying to preposition you into marrying the literal and figurative narcissist!

And when you finally, finally got out of that conversation your mother had pointed you to Tim Drake and shooed you off to him to try and connect. Something about building strings when you take over your mother and father's company. So you begrudgingly go over and try to strike up a conversation - only for him to blatantly ignore you! You didn't even notice you had been talking to yourself because you had stupidly decided to start rambling.

So, having bad enough with the humiliation for one night you decided to take the high road and just walk off and try and find somewhere else to lurk... Maybe you could sneak a flute of champagne... But a cold, frankly clammy, hand quickly latches onto you as Tim starts rambling off some half-hearted apology with an awkward smile stretching too far for his thin self.

You want to slap him, you imagine saying something cool - a witty one liner, a quip that has people around cheering for you. But your mind goes blank...

You could say something about his clothes? No, they look fine. Actually, they look amazing. Fuck.

You could mention his clammy hands but what can you tie in with that to make it less of an observation and more of something cool that you'd see a character say in a movie.

Oh! He has two boyfriends! You can tell him to go run along to them, reference his thin frame! Wait- no. No you can't. He doesn't know you, there's a high chance he'll think you're homophobic - which you are NOT!

As you genuinely ponder the best way to get back at him verbally, while Tim just stands there waiting for your answer awkwardly (most definitely thinking of your weirdness and taking it into account. Turns out your facial expressions changed with every thought) a loud bang rings out through the venue.

Something whizzes past your face, grazing your cheek. Everything moves too fast to catch up, especially when you were just in your own head and not paying attention to anything. Tim pulls you to the floor, guests start screaming, Tim manages to somehow drag you to a large table full of food, though he hadn't been so lucky as a rather thick dress shoe slams down on his foot, causing a sickening crack and a pained grunt from him.

You're trembling, scared out of your mind, paralysed to the point that despite Tim's injured hand you remained dead weight for him to pull along. You managed to scoot under the table cloth of the table alongside him and watched as Tim opened a secret hatch to a tunnel in the wall.

Huh. You thought those were only in spy movies.

... Huh. Tim Drake has a secret tunnel... That doesn't sound right but you can't think straight. Your ears are ringing, your stomach turning like a washing machine, your ears pounding out of your head, your limbs stiff and your throat dry. You can't bring yourself to process anything but how scared you are.

You don't question nor process when Tim pushes you into the hole, you just start crawling. The tunnel closes after a pause, Tim comes up beside you - the passageway could fit a bicycle laying down on its side - before taking the lead.

You just follow him, hoping he wasn't some evil freak with bad intentions.

-

It's felt like you've been crawling - and occasionally sliding - forever. The gunshots ringing out have grown faint, the shock has started to be replaced with a sinking horror at the realization at what had just taken place.You're parents were in there... Are they alright? Is anyone alright?

You look to Tim, wanting to ask, but you doubt he knows what's happening either. A sudden wave of guilt overcomes you - you're being so selfish right now. Tim's family was in the room too, they could be dead right now, Tim's hand looks broken - to the point it's swelling and looking painfully purple and black - and he's having to lead you to safety.

You stop in your tracks, your voice coming out far too cracked and far too meek for your liking. "Tim...?" Tim stops crawling before turning to face you, your frown deepens as your guilt rises. He's probably just as scared as you. "I.. I'm sorry about your hand... If you need pressure on it I can tear off parts of my outfit..!" You offer, trying to smile comfortingly. You watch as Tim softens slightly before smiling back at you, just as forced as yours was. "It's alright, when we get to the destination we're headed I can tend to my hand." He answers, his voice oddly steady, like he's used to the high intensity situation.

You hesitate, feeling it'd be wrong to just allow that. Tim starts to crawl again and you act quickly, forgetting to think. You grab his ankle and pull him back. He yelps, almost falling on his face. You offer a small apology before quickly crawling up to his side more and cut off bits of your outfit - luckily you had your eyebrow scissors in your purse, just in case of an eyebrow emergency. They aren't the sharpest in the world but they do the trick.

You wrap up his hand, closing your eyes and trying to remember how your father taught you to wrap hand injuries as you wrap Tim's. You try not to think about your dad or mother, try not to imagine their corpses on the ground where you're sure they are. You hope they got out, but you don't know. You don't want to hope.

If future you could have looked back at this moment you wouldn't have been so kind to Tim, and you would have kept your eyes open. Because the look on Tim's face as you wrap his hand with eyes squeezed shut was something that would haunt even Wonder Woman's dreams if she were to witness it. It's the look a predator gets when it finds a rather plump prey in the middle of a food shortage.

These are the paintings referenced in the story! (In order of reference)

Jason: The Fallen Angel

Tim: Along the River During the Qingming Festival

Damian: Napoleon Crossing The Alps

Dick: The Creation of Adam

Bruce: Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan