Chapter Text
"Draconian, Timothy, you must know this. How else will you communicate?"
4-year-old Tim blinked up at his father, not sure how to respond. He could speak perfectly well. His Kindergarten teacher had told him so. In fact, his parents were there to hear it.
"Say it again," his dad sighed, putting his hand on his forehead and slumping against the couch pillows. Tim was sitting on another couch, drowning in it in fact, right across from him. There was a coffee table in between with the dictionary open on it.
"Dra—" Tim tried. "Drecowian."
His dad's nostrils flared. "Dra-co-nian," he enunciated.
Tim did not want to do this. He suddenly found a strange thumping in his chest. His mind was spinning. He did not like it one bit. So he fussed.
He whined in a small voice, just to test out how his father would take it. When he only sighed exasperatedly, Tim whined a little louder.
"Timothy," Jack shook his head, rubbing his temples.
"I wanna go," Tim pouted. "And I'm Tim. Miss Beck said I was."
"Your name," his dad snapped, "is Timothy."
Tim huffed and folded his arms, looking down.
"Now, Draconian. Dra-co-ni-an. It's not hard and you're not stupid, now say it."
"Dra," Tim tried again, getting restless and fidgety more and more. "Dra-co-wian."
"Do you know how to pronounce the 'nn' sound?"
"Yes." Tim kicked his legs.
"Then why aren't you pronouncing it?"
"I don' know." He started kicking the table.
"Draconian," his dad repeated.
"Draco-nian."
"Good."
Tim looked up. Did he finally get it right? It was about time. He was getting bored. "Can I go, dad?"
"No."
"Whyyy?" Tim wanted to cry. He didn't like this one bit. He wanted to go to his room and finish the coloring homework Miss Beck had given everyone. She had said that the most colorful one would get any sticker they wanted. He wanted that scratch-and-sniff strawberry sticker. Not words.
"Timothy, I am losing my patience." His dad picked up the dictionary. "Let's move onto another word I taught you. We're testing your skills right now so that you can finally speak to other people at the gala without embarrassing yourself."
Tim whined again, this time with more irritation. He wanted to go.
"Stop kicking the table."
Tim did.
"What's a word I taught you for 'bored'?" Jack continued, peering down at the thick dictionary in his hand.
Tim knew this one. He was feeling it right now. "Un-vee."
"No."
Tim frowned and unfolded his arms, sitting up. "Yes it is! You told me!"
"I told you a different word. What you just said is not a word at all."
"Un— on-vee?"
"Closer."
Tim shuffled forward.
His dad sighed. "No, I meant your pronunciation is closer. Try again."
"Um…" He didn't know what to say now. Something in his dad's posture and the way he was sitting was alerting him, making him… scared. "On-wee?"
"Ennui. Correct."
Tim exhaled in relief.
"A word for trembling."
Tim knew this. Miss Beck had told him that it also meant a bag where you can carry arrows in. Like Green Arrow. "Ac-wee-vir."
A fraction of a second barely passed before a stinging pain was left on the left side of his face. It was as if his dad was ready to bring his hand down on him.
Tim immediately quieted down. His eyes started to water.
"Wrong," his dad—the man in front of him—stated, completely impassive. "Try again."
"I don' know," Tim said quietly. He quickly tried to wipe his eyes, but tears kept sliding down his cheeks. His left side still hurt.
"Wrong answer. Say 'acquiver'."
"Ac— acwee—" He couldn't think. What was he supposed to say again? "What?"
"Acquiver," Jack repeated.
"Acquivir."
Apparently it was good enough, because he moved on. "I did say I was losing my patience, Timothy."
Tim sniffed and wiped his eyes again.
"To leave abruptly."
His mother had used that word before. He really wanted her right now. "Where's mom?" he asked, rubbing his wet eyes.
"Out shopping with her friends. Or… what's another way to say that sentence?"
"Leave ab-rut-ly with her friends?"
"Yes, what's another word for leaving abruptly?"
"Ab— abkwauwate."
Jack slapped him again on the left side, doubling the stinging pain. Tim let out a loud sob this time.
He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. He didn't like what— what his father was doing to him. He didn't like that his dad wasn't laughing and smiling like he usually did. He didn't like that he had to sit still and pronounce words instead of doing his coloring homework that Miss Beck said. He didn't like how his dad wasn't behaving like himself. And he didn't like being hurt.
"You're stupid, aren't you?" Jack spat, looking at him straight in the eyes.
"N— no!"
"No?"
"No! I'm not! Miss Beck said so!"
"Miss Beck doesn't know the real you. She doesn't know how you really behave at home."
Tim sobbed again.
"Stop crying, Timothy. It is unbecoming and embarrassing."
Tim sobbed quieter.
"Now. Ab-squa-tu-late."
"Absk— abskwa— abskwa—"
"Absquatulate. When we'll be leaving early from the gala, and I'm making sure we are, you'll have to be saying this word to the adults around, okay?"
"Okay," Tim hiccuped.
"Now say it."
"Okay." Tim wiped his eyes again. "Abskwachulate."
"Good. Now pronounce this word." Jack tapped at a tiny word in the dictionary that he put under Tim's nose.
There were two meanings for the word. Tim could read them because his mom and dad had gotten him to learn how to read at three years old. He had managed to read the whole book of Three Little Pigs by himself with little mistakes. The mistakes he did make, he was hurt for it. They had slapped him. Just like Jack was right now.
The two meanings were:
Annoyingly insensitive or slow to understand
(of an angle) more than 90° and less than 180°
He wondered what the weird circle things beside the numbers were.
Oh, no time for that now. His father was waiting for an answer.
"Ob— obtoosss," Tim sounded out.
"Wrong," Jack said. That was the only warning he gave before he slapped him. On the left side. Again.
Tim started crying properly now.
"Timothy if you don't quieten down right now, I'm going to—"
A doorbell interrupted the sentence.
Tim shot up and bolted to the door. He pulled out a small toy stool, got up on it, typed the code on the keypad, then opened the door, all while crying with tears flicking everywhere.
"Timothy?" His mother removed her sunglasses in surprise. "What are you doing crying all over that perfectly good suit? Why are you crying in the first place?"
"Dad— dad hit me!" Tim shrieked and jumped off the stool. He put his little arms around his mother, only reaching her legs. He buried his face in her shiny black leather pants.
"What happened, Jack?" She put down the shopping bags and asked his dad who must be behind them right now. Tim shuffled to keep him in his eyesight, sobbing the whole time.
"I tried teaching him the proper use of language before his first family charity gala today, but he keeps mispronouncing every single one of them."
"I pro— prononced in-vee-si-bel correctly," Tim argued, hiccuping in between.
"The only one so far," Jack said. He didn't sound angry, nor low and dangerous now. He only sounded tired.
"We don't need him to talk all that much tonight. Just get his nanny to get him ready. Where is she?"
"Ironing a new suit."
"Why's he wearing a suit right now? It's not time yet. He's getting tears all over it."
"He didn't want to remove it after I said that he looked smart in that one." There was a small hint of fondness in his voice.
His mother looked down at his tear-struck face. He was slowly ceasing sobs now. "Just remember what I told you about addressing people, alright?"
"To— to call them by— by the name they want at the end of a sen— sentence?" Tim asked, still clutching her tightly.
"Exactly. Don't use it too much, don't use it too less. Use it just enough to make them exclaim about how much of a sweet little man you are."
"O— okay." He wiped the remaining tears from his face. Then he remembered what the tears were for in the first place and the slowly fading sting of the slaps and the tears started once more. "Dad hit me!" Tim cried. "He hit me."
His mom tilted his face up and examined it. "Hm, the left side is looking rather red. Your eyes are draconian-looking too."
Tim flinched at the word.
"Why did you hit him on the same side, Jack? You know that we have to go to the gala in the evening."
"I don't know." Jack ran a hand through his hair. "The boy irritates me sometimes."
"Slapping him repeatedly on the same side leaves a mark, you know that, Jack." His mom peeled him away from her and took off her heels.
"Miss Beck said that it's wrong to hit at all."
His parents froze. His father stopped midway through getting his phone from his pocket and his mother paused from hanging her big white hat.
"Did you tell her that your parents hit you?" his mom said slowly and dangerously.
Tim squirmed and took two steps backward. "No. You told me not to. I heard her say to Jayden when he threws the shovel at Anna."
They unfroze and untensed in relief.
"It's 'threw' not 'threws'," his mom clarified. "And we told you before too. Mom and dad are allowed to hit you. No one else. Only we have that right because you're our son."
"Don't tell Miss Beck that either," his dad added.
Tim nodded.
"Come. Let's put some ice on your face and eyes before calling your nanny."
Jack picked him up and Tim screamed, slipping loose from his grip.
"Timothy!" his mom exclaimed. "What was that horrendous noise? Why did you scream like some behemoth?"
"Don't make me hit you again," Jack warned. "Come to me at once."
Tim made a pained, hesitant face but slowly scooted his feet forward.
"Don't pick him up again, Jack," his mom shook her head, already making her way inside the house. "He's too old for that."
"Walk then," his dad ordered and turned away, following her.
Tim rubbed his eyes again, shooed away the urge to scream and cry once more, then tailed after his dad reluctantly.
-------------------------------------
"Issa pwejer to make your ankwaintence."
Behind Mrs. Wilcox, his father slapped his forehead disappointedly.
"Awww," Mrs. Wilcox cooed, apparently not minding at all. "That's a long word for such a small child."
"We've been teaching him words from the dictionary," his mother explained. "So far, it's only the pronunciation that's left."
"He's a sweet little heartbreaker," Mrs. Wilcox crooned.
"I'm a sweet wittle heart bweeker!" Tim exclaimed, bouncing on his toes. But a harsh glare from his mom made him stand still again.
They were an hour into the evening family charity gala and Tim was already getting restless.
He still hadn't finished his coloring. He had barely gotten his color pencils, glitter pens, and crayons out after getting ready when his nanny had picked him up and dropped him in front of the stairs, urgently telling him to go outside to his parents' car. From there, he had to strut down a red carpet just like how his mom taught him, then smile and wave at the cameras as his dad told him to, then greet the doorman, then pull the door open (not push), then stick with his parents from there and never to leave their side at all for the rest of the gala.
It was exciting… for the first ten minutes. Then Tim started getting fidgety as his dad went away with his laughing friends and his mom chatted with some strangers. Too many minutes later, his dad brought a man and a woman he called Mr. Wilcox and Mrs. Wilcox and demanded Tim to talk to them.
"Ah well, you know how kids are," Mr. Wilcox shrugged. "They can barely talk, it's part of growing up."
"Our son is very special," his mom said casually, taking a sip of something from her glass.
Tim knew that cue. She was going to get him to do something to prove how special he was. Thing was, Tim didn't know what. He just had to prepare himself and wait.
"He is a certified child genius," she bragged. "Go on, ask him anything."
"Very well then." Mr. Wilcox looked down at him. Tim straightened up. "What is the capital of… New Zealand?"
"Wainlington."
"Wellington, very nice," Mrs. Wilcox laughed amusedly. "Let me ask a simple question." She bent down to his height, her many necklaces hanging and bumping against each other from her neck. "Do you know what prime numbers are?"
"Uh huh," Tim nodded. A look from his dad made him change his answer. "I mean—yes, I know what pry numbers are."
"What's your favorite one?"
Tim blinked. "I don' know."
Mrs. Wilcox smiled. "How charming."
"I can— I can count— I can count them all though," Tim tried. He didn't want to make his parents angry.
"That's lovely," she said, sounding a little bored. She patted his head with a hand covered in blue crystal and straightened up. "I must go now, Janet. It was a pleasure meeting your son and Jack. Do come to our girls' pool meet next week."
"I'll try, Jaz," Janet nodded.
As Mr. Wilcox and Mrs. Wilcox walked away to meet another two people, Tim felt his stomach rumble. "Mom, I'm hungwee."
"Patience, Timothy. Not now. It's barely been an hour." She looked through the people at the gala, hunting for more people to talk to.
"But I want to eeeeat," Tim whined, bouncing up and down with impatience.
"Don't jump like that. You're not a clown," she snapped.
Tim stopped, but it just made him feel even more restless. "I'm hungweee," he groaned.
"I'll take him to get some mini eclairs, Jane," his dad offered. "I see someone there I want to meet anyway."
"He won't remember his eating manners," his mom frowned.
"Nonsense. He's a good sport. If he doesn't remember, then we'll deal with him at home. You will remember, won't you, Timothy?" He creased his eyebrows at Tim.
Tim nodded. Whatever it took to get food. He liked eclairs. They had chocolate on them.
"Come then, let's leave your mother to her lady friends."
His mom rolled her eyes and sauntered away.
Jack held out a hand for Tim to hold. Tim hesitated, remembering the slaps earlier. He squirmed instead, drawing circles by the pillar they were near.
"Timothy, stop fooling around and get."
Tim winced at his sharp tone. "Okay." He carefully put his small hand in Jack's big one.
"Have you grown smaller?" Jack smiled at him. "I could have sworn that you were bigger just a second ago."
"No, dad!" Tim giggled, easing up a little now that his dad wasn't mad anymore.
They made their way through crowds and groups of families. Tim avoided looking at any kids and the kids avoided looking at him back. They all avoided each other. They weren't meant to talk unless they were told to.
They arrived at the food table and Jack picked up a mini eclair with a napkin. "Don't make a mess and stay with me, okay?" he warned.
Tim reached out for the eclair and nodded, but his eyes were on the pastry. His dad handed it to him. Tim immediately bit into it, taking care to not stuff his face too much and patting his mouth with the napkin.
"Satisfied?" his dad asked.
Tim nodded, blinking his eyes at him, mouth too busy chewing food.
Jack hummed and walked to a big man with a long, brown beard. "Who's trying out for the lumberjack beard contest again?" his dad laughed as he spread his arms out and greeted.
"Jackie!" the man exclaimed as he held out a hand for his dad to clasp and shake.
Tim looked away, too engrossed in his eclair. He tried taking bites as small as possible, but the eclair finished too quickly. And he was still hungry.
"Dad." He reached up to tug his shirt but stopped. His dad didn't like it when he pulled on his clothes. "Dad," he called out louder. But the laughter of the man with the big brown beard was even louder. Two more people joined the man and Tim's dad.
Tim huffed and looked back at the table with the eclairs. He could just go and get one himself. He had been taught how to pick up food by himself without making a mess. He just had to use those tongs and grab a napkin, then pick up an eclair with the tongs and put it into the napkin.
Tim squashed down the urge to run there and walked calmly with his back straight just like he was taught. He blinked at the high table.
Tim narrowed his eyes and put his hands on the clear wood. Then he pulled himself up on his toes and reached out a hand for the tongs that were only just in front of his fingers. He grunted and reached further, but some behemoth had put it too far away.
Tim plopped back down on his feet and breathed heavily. He took two steps back, then hopped half onto the table and managed to grab the tongs. He landed on his feet and grinned, whispering a cheer.
He swiveled around, to see whether anyone had noticed a 4-year old boy nearly jumping onto a table, but no one did. Good.
He turned back to the table and looked up. The eclair plate was even further away from the tongs. His victory smile fell. He scowled instead.
He stomped over to the napkin tray, at least that was near enough. He accidently grabbed two napkins. "Oh no," Tim exclaimed, staring at the two triangle-folded napkins in his hand, aghast.
He put the tongs and one napkin at the edge of the table, where he could easily reach, then tried folding the napkin back into the fancy triangle as best he could.
He didn't succeed. The napkin tore instead.
Tim winced and balled it up. That reminded him, where was the napkin his dad had given to him before?
He cast his eyes across the floor, but didn't find anything. Just a bunch of expensive shoes belonging to expensive people. "Oh well," he shrugged. He dropped the balled–up napkin to the floor.
His stomach made the rumbly noise again. He was still hungry. He looked back at his dad in the distance. He was talking with three more people along with the man with the big brown beard and the other two people who had joined.
He was looking happy. Tim shouldn't interrupt.
He looked around for his mom instead but gave up. The mass of people was dizzying him. Were there really this many people when he arrived?
Turning back to the table, he picked up the tongs and the napkin he had put on the edge before and walked back to the eclairs. He glared at them.
The eclairs didn't move.
He glared harder.
The eclairs spoke. "You know, that little scowl of yours would be cute if not for the fact that it's so cold, it's making me want to put on a coat."
Tim shrieked and tripped backwards. "Ow!" He landed hard on his butt.
"Are you okay?"
"No," Tim snapped. He rubbed his eye but stopped. His mom wouldn't like it if he ruined his makeup. She didn't like how pale he was and wanted him to hide it.
"Sorry."
Tim looked up and saw a boy in front of him. So it wasn't the eclairs that were talking. It was the boy.
"Where did you come from?" Tim asked.
Dick Grayson grinned and put his hands on his hip. "From under the table. Name's Dick Grayson. What's yours?"
An echo of a scream and two people falling from a height flashed through his brain. He blinked, then it was gone.
"Ti-mo-thee Drake," Tim stated and nodded, the same way his dad did whenever he was introducing himself to a serious person.
Dick Grayson laughed. "You're cute, you know that?"
"Yeah," Tim nodded.
Dick Grayson laughed again. "You're pretty tiny too. Timothy is too big for you. I'm gonna call you Tim." He offered a hand.
"That's what Miss Beck calls me too!" Tim took it and landed on his feet as Dick Grayson pulled him up.
"Who's that?"
"My kin-der-gar-en teacher."
"Cool. Wanna tell me why you were death-glaring that pile of eclairs?"
Tim's stomach made the rumbly noise again. "I'm hungwee."
"So you were challenging the eclairs to a staring contest?"
"You're not funny."
Dick Grayson laughed again. Then he turned serious and knelt down to his height. "Bruce told me that the other kids might be mean cuz they were raised that way and I'll need to be patient with them."
Tim nodded, even though he didn't fully understand what Dick Grayson was saying. He agreed that the other kids were mean though.
"So I'm gonna be patient with you. In return, you don't say rude things like that, okay?"
Tim nodded again, eyes wide. "I didn't mean to be rood. I like you."
Dick Grayson tilted his head. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." He had met him before. At the circus. He had given Tim a hug and a picture. Right before… before his parents died. The Flying Graysons.
"Okay then. I'll help you get an eclair."
Tim was about to jump up and down in excitement but stopped himself. He straightened up and politely bowed his head. "Thank you, Dick Gwayson."
"You're welcome, your highness. And call me Dick."
"Thank you, Dick."
Dick grinned and stood back up. "Wanna give me those?"
Tim handed the tongs and napkin over to him.
Dick took it and turned his back to him, reaching the top of the eclair pile and picking an especially chocolatey eclair. "These napkins are really expensive, you know?" Dick said as he put an eclair into one. "So it's better to put it in your pocket and reuse it until it's completely dirty."
"Okay." Tim didn't care about that much. He just wanted an eclair. He made grabby hands at the eclair in Dick's hand.
"Do you want me to put some icing sugar on top of it?" Dick asked, holding the eclair up high.
"No thank you. Can I please have the ack-leer?"
"Hm." Something entered Dick's eyes as he looked like he was considering holding the eclair out of reach and teasing him.
Tim stopped reaching out for the eclair and scowled. He wasn't going to be teased. His dad said that he was stronger than that. He looked away from Mean Dick and tottered over to the eclairs on the table.
"Where are you going?" Mean Dick asked.
"Away," Tim answered without looking at him. Maybe he should get those shrimp things his mom liked instead. The eclairs were a— a lost cause.
"Hey, wait!"
Tim didn't wait.
"Okay, look, I'm sorry. I'll give you your chocolate pastry back."
Tim stopped and looked back. He narrowed his eyes at Dick's regretful face and his hand that was holding the eclair out. "I don' wan' it anymore," he said.
Dick raised an eyebrow. "I can eat it then?"
Tim shrugged. "Okay."
Dick shrugged too. "Alright then." He put the whole eclair into his mouth.
Tim watched him chew. When Dick swallowed the eclair, Tim started to tear up.
"Oh, what happened? I'm sorry." Dick immediately crouched in front of him. "I'm really sorry. I was mean. You said you didn't want it, but I forgot to check. I'm sorry."
Tim shook his head and wiped at his tears before they streaked makeup down his cheeks. "Iss not your fault. I don' know why am cry-eeng."
"I do," Dick said solemnly.
"You do?" Tim hiccuped.
"Mhm. It's because you're hungry."
That made sense.
"C'mon. Let's grab a whole plate of food to share."
Tim nodded and wiped his eyes again. "Do you have a tee-shoe?"
"There's a box over here."
Tim accepted the tissue and dabbed gently so his makeup would stay in place.
"So," Dick grinned down at him. "What do you wanna eat?"
A few minutes later, Tim was holding a new eclair and Dick was holding a plate full of different types of bite-sized food.
"Bite-sized for me, big-sized for you," Dick laughed as he handed Tim another eclair.
"Iss not that big." Tim accepted it, using the same napkin he had before.
"Timothy?" a familiar voice called his name.
"Mom!" Tim shouted, but the chatter was heavy in the ballroom and his voice was drowned. "I have to go," Tim turned to Dick.
"Aw." Dick looked genuinely sad. "I'm still stuck here for a bit longer. Actually…" He put the plate on a nearby table and knelt down to Tim's level again, "I'm supposed to be looking for this woman. She's two times taller than me, has black hair, always wears a blue crystal bracelet, and looks Russian. You seen her?"
Blue crystal bracelet? He saw that just a while ago.
"Are you looking for Mrs. Wilcox?" Tim asked.
"So that's her name." Dick looked thoughtful. "And she witnessed the whole— Oh." He looked back down at Tim again and smiled. "Thank you for helping me, Tim. You're a hero, did you know that?"
Tim tilted his head quizzingly.
"Okay then. It was nice meeting you."
"It was a pwejer to make your ankwaintence." Tim put out a hand.
Dick laughed again and shook it. He laughed quite a lot, Tim noticed. "It's a pwejer to make your ankwaintence too," he mocked, but not unkindly.
Tim nodded once and took off running with his eclair. "Mom?" he called out. "Mom!"
"Heavens, stop shouting, Timothy," a voice said behind him. "I'm right here."
Tim turned around and saw his mother, looking pristine and beautiful in her fancy blue dress as always. "You look pweety, mom."
She smiled. "Thank you, Timothy. Now do tell me, why were you running around?"
"I was looking fo' you, mom."
"Hm. Where's your dad?"
Tim looked around. "I don' know."
Janet sighed. "I knew he wouldn't be able to look after you. Always off with his friends."
Speaking of friends… "I made a fwends!"
"It's called 'friend'," she corrected.
"Fwend," Tim parroted.
"We're only going to be staying until the speech, Timothy. After that, we're leaving. I'm getting a little tired of this place. It's not nearly as extravagant as the invite hyped it to be." She clucked disappointedly.
"I like the ack-leers," Tim mumbled quietly, finishing the last bit of the pastry. He wondered what to do with the napkin now.
"Hm. Oh! There he is. Come, Timothy." Janet grabbed his hand and the napkin accidentally fell from his grip. He wasn't able to pick it back up because she dragged him away.
"How long we stay-eeng, mom?" Tim asked, jogging to keep up with her.
"As long as it takes, Timothy."