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His eyes open.
For the first time? Maybe?
But no, that’s not right.
He remembers…
He remembers life. Breathing. Crying and laughing and the boredom that occasionally struck. He remembers. Something about a Robin. And a Bat.
Something about a city that takes and doesn’t let go.
He feels his eyes scrunch, his fingers tightening in a defensive position that he doesn’t remember how he learned. But there’s something to clutch his fingers around.
Round and cold and so incredibly familiar.
Tim blinks his eyes open and only then realizes that although he remembers breathing, he isn’t actually inhaling at the moment. But his lungs don’t burn from the lack of oxygen.
His eyes are sticky in a way they never are when he wakes up. A darkness fading from his vision that reminds him of unconsciousness but is different enough that he can’t tell himself it’s that. No. This is something different.
He takes a breath to settle something in his head and feels something on his back move with the motion.
Something that isn’t a cape.
The darkness clears in a wash of adrenaline. His eyes open wide, arms moving to the side as he pushed himself upward, staff in one hand and other hand ready to defend.
But there’s no-one to defend from.
He stands and his feet hold him. He turns his head to the side over his shoulder.
And freezes.
What happened? Tim thinks
There’s the wall behind him. Wooden but red in hue. A red carpet. A plush red bed that’s rumpled where Tim must have shoved himself upward. But that’s not what has Tim’s attention.
No, at his back, moving with him, motion in time with him, are a set of wings. Red and black and dripping like blood before it fades into a black darker than shadows.
Tim moves his arm to the side to brush them aside and feels the muscles where they attach accommodate. Instinctually.
Feels a bone shift somewhere in the middle of his ribs. Right about…
Tim’s memories come back to him in a wave of pain.
The angel.
The stab wounds.
The deal.
Dying.
Tim is dead. But he isn’t in Heaven. The deal worked. But Tim isn’t sure where he actually is. Though, now that Tim has some of his thoughts back on track, the walls remind him of the hotel.
He swallows.
Takes another breath and tries to ignore the fluttering behind him for the sake of his own sanity.
“I don’t want to be alone” he remembers saying.
How ironic that he’d wake up with no-one at his side.
But Tim swallows the taste of blood on his tongue that may be real, based on his last memories. But then he remembers. He’s in the Hotel. He’s about as far from alone as he can be. About as far from Drake manor as possible, both space-wise and aesthetically.
He takes another breath that feels more like muscle memory than need and spins to face the door.
Stops short.
The first thing he sees is the wings.
Then, he sees the hair, black like a void on his head. The red lips that remind him of blood.
“Death wounds” he remembers Alastor saying “Can occasionally influence a person’s appearance in death”
The wings on his back aren’t placed where he would assume. They’re spreading from where the stab wounds through his lungs had extended.
His lips aren’t just painted red like blood. It probably is blood.
His ears stretch longer than any human’s and come to a point at the top that reminds him vaguely of Alastor’s.
And his eyes…He looks away.
He’d always been told his eyes were striking. Maybe a little intimidating. “Creepy” had been mentioned more than once.
Now? His eyes shine an absurd, impossible, inhuman blue.
They almost look like Emily’s.
Tim swallows.
Turns away from the mirror and moves toward the door next to it.
“Hello?” he calls down the hall, the sound deadened by wood and plush carpet. His feet don’t make a sound when they move and when Tim glances down, his feet are encased in his own shadow, swirling like shallow water around his shoes.
“Alastor?” he calls again, unsure which way down the hall to proceed.
“Timothy”
The voice is quiet.
Emerging from behind him, to the side, where his shadow meets the wall.
Tim looks over, biting his lip.
Alastor looks the same as always. Deer-like features kept to a minimum when he isn’t angry. Red and black, and Tim smiles when he realizes that they match.
Alastor doesn’t approach. And Tim’s heart clenches a little bit.
“How are they doing?” he asks, anything to break the awkward silence. And Alastor answers like he’d been looking for the same break “They are grieving. As you had probably guessed. They wish to see you, but I managed to keep them at bay while you adjust” he answers.
Tim almost laughs at the notion.
Adjust. Like he hadn’t chosen this for himself.
“So, Timothy. I am glad that you are on your feet. How do you feel?”
A smile works its way onto Tim’s lips, familiar, and it somehow eases the tension in Alastor’s shoulders “I feel…different”
Alastor smiles back at him, not wide and deceiving but small. About as close to sincere as Alastor ever gets “The wings would be an adjustment, yes”
The wings shiver behind him, feathers ruffling and puffing as Tim acknowledges them again.
“Though I am sure that Husk would be able to assist you in getting used to the new appendages”
Tim’s head shoots up “Right. Husk also has wings” He remembers, blinking as his wings fold themselves against his back.
“And I am sure that Vaggie would also be able to assist, though she has less experience using the wings in the city than Husk would have”
“And the shadows?” Tim asks.
He knows what he wants to hear in answer. But he can’t just assume…
Alastor’s smile is small. Sincere.
“Well, the shadows are my specialty, after all”