It doesn't hit him what he's wearing until he glimpses himself in one of those old-timey full-length mirrors, and his heart thuds in his chest.

Black suit, crisp shirt, and the white mask that's just a little too eerily reminiscent of that thing of his nightmares. He swallows hard, unable to tear his eyes away. Even without the freakish height, the eyeless, smooth, skin-taut face, it's darkly obvious what he's come dressed as.

Great. That's just - that's just great.

Tim breathes out shakily and turns away. It's a dream. It's just a dream, and it's some stupid, spooky old mansion. He sniffs the punch suspiciously in case any of it's spiked - dream or not, alcohol's not a risk he's willing to take. When the scent doesn't burn his nostrils, he pours himself a hefty amount and drains it in one gulp. He's never been a party-goer, as that that would require him having a number of friends greater than two at any one time, but he imagines that if he were, he'd be the designated broody punch-drinker lingering in the back out of everyone's way. Might as well fulfill that social obligation.