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For @ladydoptera, to 'Pomegranate Lips' by Derivakat,
"Password?"
Tim swallows. The eyes in the narrow window of the metal door are plenty familiar, dark violet with black makeup. But knowing who is on the other side doesn't help him in the slightest.
"Going ghost," he says, keeping his voice low. The window slides back shut with a snap - metal over metal, Tim's ears hurt - and then, there's a click, a snap, and the door opens.
A girl in a creatively ruined but still somehow stylish gothic lolita dress is standing in front of him. She looks taller than usual, and when Tim looks down, he knows why - those platforms must be at least four inches, how does she even walk in those?
"Welcome, McFly," Sam's dark red lips curve in a smirk that looks just a bit too smug on her. Also, to this day, Tim has no idea why she picked that nickname for him.
He steps inside, and the heavy door slams shut behind him, leaving them both in complete darkness. Or, Tim thought so until he looks a little closer and notices how Sam's violet eyes are faintly glowing - not enough to light the way, but enough to raise a few questions.
Questions that Tim is not going to ask.
Yet.
"Follow me," the girl says, her voice on the brink between annoyed and amused, and starts walking away through the narrow hall. Tim does his best to follow; his eyes are adjusting to the darkness, albeit slowly.
However, the walk doesn't last long - ten or so steps later Sam pushes another door, and-
The closest thing Tim can describe it as is a rave, of all things. Loud, rhythmic music that thrums through his whole body, strobes and bright green lights everywhere, and people, hundreds of them, dressed in all kinds of things. Tim freezes in the doorway, struggling to take in the sight.
A woman in a Victorian dress is dancing with what looks to be a werewolf in prison robes. A child just threw a one-eyed parrot at a man in a black tie suit. A knight of plated armor is waving a sword around, seemingly arguing with-
"Keep your mouth closed," Sam's finger taps his chin from below, and Tim shuts it back closed with a snap. Right, he's got no time to gawk, he is here on a mission. But, when he looks back to Sam, his mind comes to a screeching halt yet again.
"How'd you-" he starts, looking at how the girl's skin, usually pale and almost white, is glittering with small lines of blood red runes. They are not tattoos, or at least Tim doesn't think so because they move, like tiny snakes or vines over her skin.
"Nope, not answering," Sam clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes, her perfectly sharp eyeliner getting a deep, dark red hint as well, "I don't owe you shit."
With that, she turns around and starts weaving through the crowd, leaving Tim no choice but to follow.
The music is nearly crushing his eardrums. The crowd should feel suffocating - Tim knows it usually does in places like these - but somehow it doesn't. What's more, it feels cold. So cold, in fact, that goosebumps run over Tim's skin.
However, just as he feels like they are completely lost in this freezing, neverending sea of faces and figures, Sam stops. Tim almost runs into her back, actually, but, just as he is about to ask her why, she steps to the side and gestures for Tim to go ahead.
And Tim... Tim can't move a muscle.
There's a corner booth in front of him, with red velvet seats and more than a few dozen drinks, empty and full, on the table in the middle. Some of the liquids are glowing toxic, unnatural colors, and in the back corner of his mind, Tim still remembers why he's here. He is investigating, right. Which includes meeting the owner of 'Afterlife' face to face, yeah. Something about a new drug on the streets of Gotham, probably.
Tim can't concentrate.
The guy lazily sitting at the table, with hair so white that it's nearly glowing and his pale skin shimmering with highlighter on his cheekbones, causes Tim's mind to completely bluescreen. Because the unbuttoned black suit with embroidered stars and an open white shirt underneath, the neon blue, faintly glowing cold eyes, and blood red lips stretched in a dangerous smile - that's thankfully is not directed at him - are all... Too much.
Not blood red, actually. It's a different color, but Tim can't remember the name.
He can barely remember his own name, to be honest.
"Oi, Danny," Sam snaps her fingers in the air, and the ethereal being blinks, tearing his unblinking gaze away from the man in a white suit sitting across from him to look at her. Then, his eyes slide to Tim, and, okay, he thought he was well past the gay panic stage of his life, but apparently not.
The guy - the god? because only divine fucking things have the right to look so otherworldly pretty, in Tim's opinion - tilts his head to the side slightly, a curious edge to him. And then he smiles, nice and a little sly, but Tim can't shake off the feeling of sharp danger that runs through his spine.
Pomegranate, that's the color.
Bite it once, and you will never leave the Underworld.
"Can I help you, little bird of crimson color?" The ethereal owner of the most mysterious place in Gotham asks without raising his voice, and yet Tim can hear him despite the loud music around.
...Maybe he doesn't mind never leaving, if he can get a taste.
~•~•~•~
When I put that song on for the first time, I was like, that's Sam. That's so Sam. But then I started writing, and things got weird, so it's both Sam and Danny now.
Tim is so gone, I'm sorry, RIP Tim. Funny thing is, he barely said a single word throughout the whole piece.