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“Vintage raven,” the cashier read the package aloud, “edgy. Just the dye is gonna be $5.10.” They set the little plastic container of hair dye down on the counter after scanning it. Tim pulled his gray hoodie tighter around himself and handed the money to the cashier, nervously tugging his hood down closer to his eyes. Before his receipt could be completely printed, Tim grabbed the black dye and quickly left the store. It was raining hard as hell when Tim stepped out, and windy enough to snatch Tim’s hood from his head. His hair flew in front of his face, smacking him in the eyes. Tim’s heart jumped into his throat the second he saw the strange, pale aftermath of a vicious attack the previous day. Ignoring this, he frantically tried to pull his hood back onto his head, hiding his shock-white hair as he darted for the train station.
***
Tim locked himself in the bathroom of his safehouse and stared at his fucked up reflection in the mirror, thinking back on what had happened. It could’ve been any normal mission. Completely normal. There was nothing that should’ve been strange or important about it. Scarecrow had escaped Arkham, and he’d been sent to apprehend him again; Scarecrow hadn’t even had any of his fear toxin on him when Tim had found him. The fight was easy enough, and nothing Tim hadn’t done before, but he’d felt the uneasy quiver in his stomach that always seemed to come before his full-blown panic attacks bubbling to the surface. Tim had fought through it, desperate not to disappoint.
He’d caught Scarecrow nearly at the centre of the New Trigate Bridge, using his grapple gun to tie him up, but Scarecrow was as clever as he was insane. Before the cord had gone taut, confining his arms, Scarecrow had flicked it like a gymnastics ribbon, catching Tim up in a loop as well. In an effort to keep it away from his neck, Tim had momentarily taken his focus off of Scarecrow, who in return had kicked him over the edge of the bridge’s guardrail, the cord catching Tim’s neck anyway. He’d hung there, shocked, his heart thundering painfully, one hand between the cord and his neck was all that kept him from asphyxiating any faster. Tim’s heart had plummeted down into his stomach as he swayed in the river wind, peering up at Scarecrow who held the hook end of Tim’s grapple gun. The pistol grip had slid out of Tim’s hand as he struggled for air. Scarecrow smiled at him as he let go of the cord, sending Tim careening down into the river, all while Tim’s brain continued its panicked rampage.
The river was cold enough to choke someone not already being strangled. As Tim fought the current, he desperately yanked at the cord around his neck, hoping for some give, but there was nothing. It took a batarang to finally cut through the sturdy cord, yet this meant nothing considering Tim still couldn’t breathe underwater.
Tim gripped his bathroom sink, all the colour leaving his fingers. I’d had a rebreather in my utility belt, Tim thought, taking a deep breath. He stared down at his hands; anything to distract himself from the creepy reality in his mirror. Tim didn’t remember getting out of the river. He didn’t remember getting himself here, or getting out of his cape and mask. He did remember waking up in the pitch black of the early morning and discovering his own ghost in his mirror. The panic had built up again, but in a different way. Tim hadn’t even recognized himself at first.
Coaxing himself back to the present, Tim looked up at his reflection again, his heart doing that annoying sinking thing again when his weird white hair fell in his face. He moved it out of the way, trying to force his brain into staying away from any unnecessary, panic-induced existential commentary. Tim unscrewed the cap to the bottle of dye.
***
Hours later, once his hair was dry and sort of back to its original colour, Tim tried to make himself relax; a hard feat to accomplish when seemingly all of his family suddenly wondered where he was. Tim swore his heart jumping around his insides had to be bad for him. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he left for the batcave.
***
It was still raining heavily when Tim got to Wayne Manor, though now he was less worried about his hood flying off. He descended the steps into the cave and saw Bruce leaning on the desk in front of the batcomputer.
“Scarecrow got away,” Bruce said in his usual gruff tone, “what happened out there, Tim?”
“Nothing,” Tim lied, standing at the bottom of the steps, “a fluke, I’ll find him.”
“It’s okay, Nightwing’s got it handled,” Bruce said, Tim breathing a silent sigh of relief. Bruce turned and leaned against the desk for a split second before standing straight again, his expression becoming more grim.
“What’s that?” Bruce asked. Tim looked around the cave and down at himself before looking up at Bruce again.
“Gonna have to be more specific than that, B,” Tim said, shrugging.
“That, on your forehead,” Bruce said, striding toward Tim, “it looks...black, like oil or something.” Tim closed his eyes as he felt his heart drop once again. If only the pit of his stomach would actually get rid of it this time, maybe this could stop happening. Bruce swiped his thumb across Tim’s forehead, and it did indeed come away black. Tim did the same, looking down at his hand. The dye had bled from the rain.
“Go get the rest of that off,” Bruce started, walking briskly away from Tim “I don’t recognize this substance, it could be dangerous. Maybe something Scarecr-”
“It’s hair dye,” Tim interrupted, louder than he meant to. His face went red as Bruce stopped and turned to face him again.
“What? Why?” Bruce asked.
“I-” Tim stopped himself, taking a deeper breath as he felt his heart beating too quickly, “you know that phenomenon that- that stress, o-or trauma can make someone’s hair like… turn white?”
“What happened?” Bruce asked, far more concerned than angry. Tim’s heart only beat faster.
“I fell into one of his tricks,” Tim started, his voice small, “he caught me with my own cable, dropped me in the river, I- I was panicking already, it was my fault.”
“Are you okay?” Bruce came closer again, wiping the dye off on his pant leg.
“I’m fine, Bruce, it was just a dumb mistake, I’ll fix it. I-I’ll focus better, I’ll-” Tim was cut off by Bruce putting his hand gently on Tim’s shoulder.
“Are you okay, Tim?” Bruce asked again.
“I was scared,” Tim said after a shuddering breath, his heart still not calming down, “a-and this was really weird.” He ran his fingers nervously through his hair and they came away inky black. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, trying to collect his thoughts. Carefully, Bruce put his arms around him.
“You’re safe,” Bruce said, “all that’s over, you’re gonna be okay.”
“Think so?” Tim asked, his voice muffled through Bruce’s shirt.
“I know so,” Bruce replied, letting go of him, “mostly I think Jason’s gonna think that’s really funny,” he pointed at Tim’s head, more dye running down his face. Tim let out a sigh, finally starting to get his breathing under control.
“Ah shit,” he gave a halfhearted laugh and moved his hair out of his face, not looking forward to that particular interaction.