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“Mr. Wayne.” Tim scowls at the man who is supposed to be running Wayne Enterprises. He gave up on polite professionalism 3 months ago after the man repeatedly denied Tim's demotion.
“Timothy! So good to see you, chum! After my accident with the ski lift, I haven't been able to stop by the office. How's the company doing?”
Tim is aware that Bruce knows Tim doesn't buy into the Brucie act. The man, for some infuriating reason, continues to act like an imbecile.
“Yes. Well. I'm sure the company would be doing much better in your capable hands.”
The man bellows out an obnoxious laugh that makes Tim's hands twitch with the urge to choke Bruce. He's sure that prick notices, but he continues to babble on. “The company is yours now, sport! Don't be ridiculous! It was time I thought about retirement anyways.”
Tim resists the urge to either pinch his nose or point out that Bruce is younger than most of the board members. Neither would help. Instead, he gathers the papers Bruce most likely wants to see.
After the man grabs the stack, prattles about the “ski trip” again, and finally leaves, Tim bashes his head into his desk.
Why was he here again?
It was because he was stupid. It was because he still, for some fucking reason, loves the Waynes.
Timothy Jackson Drake has always loved Gotham's heroes. From his earliest memory, Batman and Robin's flight across Gotham's skyline has always fluttered his heart. Their daring actions, bravery, and selfless work made stars practically dance within his eyes.
When his parents were away from trips and the housekeepers were off, Tim would “fight” Riddler, Killer Croc, and even Condiment Man as Robin's sidekick: Batboy !
In Bat themed socks with a sheet as his cape, Batboy aided many of Batman and Robin's adventures using the newspaper as guidelines. He would practice his catchphrases and hero poses as he defeated many foes.
Sometimes, when his parents forgot his birthday or pushed back their return date, he would push pillows and blankets together, put his father's clothes over that, and then imagine Batman was giving Batboy a hug for a job well done.
Until he found out their identities at the age of nine, he loved Batman and Robin with his entire being. Batboy was a young Timothy’s solution to his prevailing loneliness. There was nothing he couldn't defeat as Robin’s sidekick.
This devotion had eventually morphed into the nine year old buying a camera and following his next door neighbors through their trek of the city.
They were everything to him.
He wanted a family, he admired Gotham's heroes, and he was so desperately alone.
Yet, even at a young age, he saw the injuries, pain, and fear that Robin often had. He saw the light, the jokes, and the laughter. He also saw the hits, the blood, and grunts of pain. His photos captured as many victories as it did violence and despair. He thought the world of his heroes because he understood they paid for it as well. He loved them.
Despite his past as Batboy, at twelve he decided he never wanted to be them. They were amazing for what they did. They saved Gotham countless times and changed the world. Yet, they gave so much for their cause. That scared young Timothy. He saw them give and give and give. They received injuries and so much pain. Where was the line? How much does the hero have to sacrifice for the cause?
Tim sighs as he starts chugging the now lukewarm coffee on his desk. If he has to deal with Bruce's inept persona, he'll take any support he can get (even if it's from the dregs of the office's shared coffee pot).
It's only a few hours later (longer than Tim thought Bruce would last in that office) that the man glides back to Tim's desk.
“Hey, Sport! Have you had lunch yet?”
“Yes, Mr. Wayne.”
Tim has not had lunch yet.
They are both aware of this.
“Are you sure, son? There's this fantastic Italian place just down the road. Camilla, the owner, is a lovely lady. She serves divine bread. You've got to come try it.”
Tim almost finds it funny how Bruce, in these past few months of Tim running Wayne Enterprises, has spoken more to Timothy than he ever has before.
When Robin died, Timothy was bitter at the thought of his beliefs being right. He was heartbroken over Jason's death and he was distraught at the teen's end. Despite wanting to help Gotham and change the world, was the hero's self-sacrifice truly worth it? Tim certainly didn't think so. What could ever be worth losing Jason Todd?
It took 4 months after Robin's death for Tim to change his mind on vigilantism because Batman was dying. Tim understood, he did , that Robin dying was devastating. He can't even imagine Bruce's pain.
That doesn't excuse the man's actions. He was trying to kill himself and drag every criminal in Gotham down into hell with him. Someone had to do something about Mr. Wayne before it was too late.
If Gotham's hero turned Rogue, what could they do? What would happen to Tim's heroes?
So Tim tried to get someone else to help. He was thirteen, had no skills in heroism, and didn't personally know the man. What could he, a child, do?
The Justice League didn't respond to the anonymous evidence packages he sent of Batman's increasingly violent and suicidal tendencies. Nightwing and Dick Grayson both ignored his attempts at getting the son to assist his father. No one was providing help.
Did Tim have to step up? Timothy Jackson Drake?
He pondered for a week about the pros and cons of Timothy Drake stepping up to help. The rich, privileged child from Bristol running around in a traffic light costume and dragging a bitter, depressed old man out of his self-made mass grave.
Ultimately, the answer was no. Timothy Jackson Drake was not going to step into this issue for several reasons.
One, his mother would throttle him if she found out the Drake name was tied to vigilantes. Even though his identity would be a secret, anyone knowing a Drake was involved is too many people. Timothy Jackson Drake could not be the one to wear a mask.
Two, Tim would merely be a placeholder. He's the field dressing on a bullet wound until the patient can get professional, experienced help. Temporary solutions don't need to be affectionately and precisely known.
Three, Tim would be the first Robin to put himself into that role. He would not be chosen and he was not bringing in skills like the other two Robins. As such, being known is unnecessary and a hindrance to his task of keeping Bruce alive. Timothy does not need Bruce or Batman as the other two did. He has adequate food and shelter. His parents are still alive.
The final reason is that the current Batman is terrifying. He beats all crooks into a bloody pulp and causes Gotham's desperate citizens to fall into exorbitant medical bills with new permanent disabilities that make paying those bills even harder. As far as Tim's seen, he's never hit a child. That didn't feel reassuring enough.
In the end, Tim does not want Batman or anyone else to realize that Timothy Jackson Drake is the new Robin.
Therefore, they won't.
When Batman gets blackmailed by a young child at the age of fourteen (Tim lied about his age as a preventative measure against his identity), Batman briefly researches the name “Alvin Draper.”
He finds a child with a working single parent that tries to juggle their bills and look after their kid. Slightly neglectful in that they don't know where Alvin is most of the time, but still a loving and good parent.
If Batman wasn't in the thralls of grief, he would've dug deeper into Tim's fabricated backstory. He would've seen the sloppily covered trails and the lack of evidence beyond a month. The thirteen year old's fake identity skills were extremely poor. Batman's negligence and Barbara's recovery coinciding are the only reasons the identity, at that stage, stood trial.
Other precautions were also enacted by Tim. He pulled himself from Gotham Academy and went online for his schooling (his parents didn't notice the change in email reports and Tim made sure to leave in the uniform when they were home). He used his allowance to rent and furnish the apartment “Alvin Draper” lived at. It was in the Bowery, but had two bedrooms. He wore contacts, a wig, put freckles with makeup onto his face, and wore casual cheap clothing. He idly remarked to Mr. Wayne after a week that he wore wigs for fun. This way, it wasn't a secret Bruce needed to investigate. He even occasionally switched the wigs for colorful ones if he knew he wasn't going on patrol. Alfred sometimes gave a compliment on fun wigs, but Bruce never remarked.
With this, Alvin Draper was born. Unless one dug into Alvin's background, there would be little reason to suspect fourteen year old Alvin Draper and thirteen year old Timothy Jackson Drake were the same person. This is especially true because Timothy hardly spent any time in public. There was very little evidence to connect the two.
Bruce Wayne simply did not care enough about Alvin to look into the matter more. The child, as far as his initial research indicated, was safe at home and adequately provided for. He did his job as Robin and did not need a father.
They were business partners and nothing more. Why should Bruce care?
If a few years later the man comes to regret never truly knowing his protégé (someone who should’ve been his son), that's an older man's bitter misfortune.
If, when they can't find proof of Alvin's continued existence, a grandfather and a brother grieve what could have been, that is those men's burdens to bear.
Brucie Wayne is still waiting on his answer for the lunch invite.
Sometimes, Tim likes to imagine stabbing Bruce repeatedly with the man's fancy fountain pens. Then he thinks of Alfred trying to get the ink and blood out of the suit. It's unfortunate, but Tim refrains from giving into his violent tendencies.
“I have already eaten, but I appreciate the invite. Someone needs to fill out the paperwork, review the departments, and be available for consultation. Tell Camilla I said hi.”
Brucie's smile becomes a bit tight.
“I insist, Timothy. Surely that can wait until after you've eaten.”
Shit. He's using his name instead of a horrendous term of endearment. Bruce is dead serious about this stupid lunch and won't take no for an answer. Tim's going to have to go, isn't he?
He meets the older man's gaze, sighs, and then nods. It seems that he's going to this lunch willingly or not.
Over the years, Tim grew better at creating fake identities while Batman was none the wiser.
There was only one member that learned of his identity before he stopped being Robin.
He was cornered by Cassandra after a few meetings. Her speech, at the time, was still extremely limited. She only needed one word.
“Liar.”
Tim gazed into her eyes, searching her expression, before he sighed. He conceded.
He's not exactly sure what she sees, but he knows when he's been caught. She was struggling with understanding words, but intentions, emotions, and lies were easy for her to spot. A grimace of a smile appears on Tim's face as he tries to explain.
“I don't trust them with the truth. It's for my own protection.”
By the slight tilt of her head, Tim got the sense that Cass understood what he was conveying but didn't understand the notion of it. She trusts Bruce, afterall.
He nods. Bruce has always been a good guardian for her. He has provided her with care, attention, and understanding. He was a different, more healed man by the time Cass came around.
After a bit of thinking, he deduced what needs to be said in this conversation.
“I love them. I care for them. I will never hurt them. I can, and have, sacrificed nearly everything for them and their cause. This one thing is mine .”
They stare at each other for a long moment before Cass nods. She smiles slightly and grabs his arm.
The gesture feels like acceptance. It feels like forgiveness.
She became the only person he never lies to.
He misses her.
They finally arrive at the restaurant. Camilla, as always, is friendly in a stern way. She personally guides them to a table. A suspiciously full table.
It seems the business lunch included the rest of the Waynes as well. A true joy.
After sitting down, Tim addresses the table. He is sure to stare directly into Bruce's eyes so the man understands how displeased the CEO is with the unexpected company.
“I don't believe we've met.” He turns his attention back to the other occupants. “I'm Timothy Drake.”
Cass meets his gaze with a soft, relieved smile. It has been a few months since they've last seen each other after all.
Tim knew, going in, that becoming Robin would cause great sacrifices. Juggling Alvin Draper, Timothy’s fake uncle (when his parents died), online schooling, his patrols, his injuries, Timothy's internship at Wayne Enterprises, and the many losses of life around him was exhausting.
Two members of the Bats tried to kill Alvin. Dick didn't believe him when he said Bruce was alive. Dick took Robin from him.
At the age of seventeen, Tim was glad that his real name had never been tied to the Waynes. He loved them ( by everything he is does he love the Bats and the Birds) , but he could never trust them. They finally proved that for good.
Brucie's chuckle grates on Tim's ears. Only Cass was able to notice the wince of the young CEO. “He's been managing the company very well in my absence. I'm so glad you were able to assist Lucius and couldn't have found a better man for the job.”
If it was before, when Tim had gone by the name Alvin and clung desperately to Bruce's presence in hopes of praise, he would've wept at the words spoken. His grin, that of a child with mirth and joy, would've beamed. The warm feeling of pride and love would’ve kept a young Timmy warm for weeks.
Now, with years of mistrust and being ignored, Tim can hardly refrain from narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
Tim's eyes flicker around the table. Besides Cass and Duke, the others aren't as welcoming as they (or in Jason and Damian's case outright don't) appear to be.
Damian looks one wrong phrase away from a verbal rebuke. Dick's heavy hand on his shoulder is the only acting restraint for treatment of the “civilian.”
Jason switches between bored apathy and shrewd regard.
Dick and Barbara both seem friendly and open, but Tim's worked with them both enough to know better. The edges of Dick's smile and the tension in Barbara's hands betray their wariness and intrigue.
Stephanie's displayed eagerness to bond is both truthful and deceiving. Tim is shady. He took over Bruce's company while the man had no say in the matter. He doubts the old bat had informed them of Tim’s repeated requests (both implicit and direct) to step down.
The smile Tim returns to Bruce was trademarked by his mother. It's biting, cold, and dripping in poison covered heavily in faux gratefulness, cheer, and goodwill. A less observant or in tune person would not notice its vicious nature.
The way each bat but Cass stiffens brings a subtle burst of joy to the Drake.
“Well, I’m glad you appreciate my work in running your company. I was afraid my lack of experience would hinder my capabilities. I am quite young to be in charge of such an industry.”
He grabs his cup to take a sip while the table contemplates his phrase. By Bruce's slight grimace, his words were not taken the way he had intended.
Good.
“If your abilities are so lacking, then why do you continue to hold the position, Drake?”
A soft click of his glass being set down is the only response for several moments.
Arctic blue eyes flicker to the youngest. He allows the analytical yet slightly disappointed gaze to settle on Damian's shoulders.
“Mr. Wayne has repeatedly refused to sign the papers that would allow him to become CEO again.” Tim tilts his head, briefly looking away before focusing on the kid again. “Unfortunately, I don't believe you can inherit the company until at least sixteen.”
His gaze lazily drifted over the legal adults sitting at the table. “If anyone else would like to take the shareholder meetings, mountains of paperwork, and business deals from the seventeen year old, let me know. I'd be happy to sign over the position.”
His gaze ended at Bruce. The man is clenching his teeth. Amusing.
The nervous chuckle from Dick Grayson is almost as grating as Brucie's. “You seem eager to be demoted, Tim.”
Tim.
Someone called him by his actual name. Not Timothy, not Mr. Drake, not an alias.
Tim.
He'd gotten used to responding to the name Alvin. After pulling himself from in-person schooling and his parents dying, that name got used more than Tim did. The kid had no social interactions where his nickname, instead of “Timothy,” would have been appropriate. He had no friends and only left his house as the Drake heir or as Alvin Draper. Bruce didn't need Tim, afterall.
Having Ra's al Ghul call the name Alvin instead of Timothy only felt slightly better. Alvin wasn't his true name, but he still wore the identity like a well-loved but too tight suit. It should be a blessing that Ra's doesn't know the young vigilante as Timothy Drake. It didn't feel like a blessing.
Some nights, when the feeling of hot sand and the copper smell of burning bubbling blood fill his room, he wakes up choking on green. He hears the creep purring out his actual name instead of Alvin.
Detective wasn't much better.
What a centuries old man wanted with him enough to consider using the pit? Tim hopes he will never find out.
Tim tried to leave Alvin behind in the wreckage of the League bases. No cameras caught him leaving nor did Ra's try to interact with him again. The leader of assassin spies could not find Alvin. Red Robin was presumed dead.
Perhaps Ra's was the true catalyst for Alvin's death. He could have, at any point, reemerged. It would be simple to pick up that role again.
That name that he only took up to save a hero from himself.
An identity that only brought grief, fear, anger, betrayal, and murder attempts.
If everyone believed he was dead, no one would come looking for him.
He would continue to return to the echoing empty hallways of Drake Manor, but at least he wouldn't flinch at every shadow. At least he'd know he was safe.
Never interacting with the Waynes again and hanging up his cape were the two main plans he had after burning that identity. He saved Bruce from the timeline. He gave the Waynes back more than he ever received. There's nothing he owes to that family.
Except lunch it seems. Lunch as Tim acts as a stranger to people he used to trust his back to. People who do not know, and hopefully will never know, who he truly is.
He didn't even want them to have any contact with his true identity outside of necessity.
Ra's al Ghul trying to destroy Wayne Enterprises fucked that all up.
The next time Tim gets access to LoA computer systems…
Ra's had taunted Alvin's death as he tried to destroy what Alvin cared for. He laughed in the horrified faces of the Waynes as he tried corporate takeover and assassination attempts. Even after his enemies’ supposed deaths, Ra's is a spiteful lime juice guzzler.
Tim's just glad he was prepared.
In Tim's internship at WE, he had managed to become a trusted associate to Bruce and Lucius. This trust was all because Tim is really good at his job and had nothing to do with his subtle manipulation towards Bruce's adoption tendencies for black haired orphans. He didn't purposefully set himself as Bruce's trusted personal assistant to keep an eye on the man while ensuring leverage and power in Wayne Enterprises for emergencies. Tim was just really good at his job. So much so that he was included in the contingency plans for Bruce's unexpected and untimely demise or inability to run the company.
That was definitely not because Tim had his own contingency plans. These contingency plans he didn't have were not enacted after Hush and his plastic surgery tried to weasel control of Bruce's company. Control Tim would not allot him.
Thomas Elliot was a buffoon of a snake. Without Tim's nonexistent contingencies, Hush would've run WE into the ground or sold it for chump change. The teen taking over was supposed to be a temporary solution to that.
Tim had it all planned out. Ra's was defeated, Bruce was returned, and Tim placed the signed papers on Bruce's desk to relinquish Tim's hold on the CEO position.
Bruce just smiled, shook his head, and called him ‘chum.’
Gods, Tim hates the Waynes.
As Cass makes eye contact across the table from him, he corrects himself. Tim hates most of the Waynes.
He turns back to answer Dick. “Well, I'm not sure most minors are happy to have an office job.” The fake socialite laugh, the one that is purposefully bad to subtly indicate how horrendous the question was, drew a wince from the eldest son. Tim was thankful the waiter appeared before the man could try to respond.
After Ra's had gingerly removed Tim's spleen to place in a jar, the teen has had to change his diet. He avoids meats, high amounts of sugar or sodium, and highly processed meals. Going from being able to consume anything and everything with his iron stomach to a more restrictive palate has been an excruciating ordeal to accomplish. He couldn't cut out caffeine as he should, but the other restrictions are followed.
Every time the teen becomes frustrated, depressed, or otherwise upset at his new limitations, he personally thanks Ra's for his new condition. In fact, following the old geezers's trail is a stress relieving pass time of his. He giggles manically in his darkroom any time he finds anything to make the bastard's day a little more rough, from flat tires and missing socks to billions of dollars being stolen. It's humorous to watch fully grown assassins quiver at the sight of cherry pits.
Due to his diet restrictions, Tim usually orders salads at restaurants. It's easier than explaining his diet restrictions or attempting cross contamination. Without controlling the process of his food or ordering specifically from restaurants that cater cliente of various food restrictions, Tim would rather not risk it. Being taken down by a common cold after surviving the Clench would be really fucking embarrassing.
Upon just ordering a salad, he gets a few odd glances. If one of these fucke-
“You're just getting a salad, sport?”
Alfred would not appreciate mending Bruce's suit if a fork happened to pierce it. Tim is considering chucking his spoon. His contemplation of utensil murder may be a bit too intense if the look on Bruce's face is any indication. It's not Tim's fault that the man causes the teen to immediately run calculations on the cost of sending a spoon flying into Bruce's face.
Would Tim get charged with elder abuse? The man isn't that old. Yet, Tim is weirdly in charge of him? He runs his company for him. If Brucie Wayne pranced around the office with a huge bruise on his face, could Tim get charged? Although the teen is certain he could wiggle his way out of a charge and manage the PR disaster, would it be worth it?
Slowly dragging his eyes from the spoon, he gauges the others’ expressions. While most seem concerned or intrigued, Cass appears amused. Damian, on the other hand, looks five seconds away from jumping up and declaring Tim a threat. He wouldn't be wrong either.
Tim sighs and turns his attention back to Bruce. He gives a polite smile that probably doesn't reach his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Wayne. I am ordering a salad.”
The man's brow furrows. “I thought you didn't like salads.”
Should Timothy Jackson Drake be killed off? Should Tim live on the run in one of his aliases? Is it worth it? Is it instead worth it to sit here and listen to another godsdamned comment come out of Bruce's mouth?
Tim has never minded salads, but he certainly wouldn't have picked them before. Who's fucking fault is it that Tim now has to shove the same variety of leafy greens into his muzzle every time he eats out? He's aware that Bruce isn't aware of this, but by the fucking gods can the man shut the hell up?
Should he just kill off Timothy Drake?
As of late, the Waynes have quieted down from their intense rage after Ra's announced Alvin's “death.” They were even really intense about it for a while.
Maybe they even somewhat did care about Alvin.
Oh well. Tim, at this point in time, can’t be fucking bothered to deal with their emotions. It's surprising that years of doing all the emotional uplifting as a child in a parent-child relationship has exhausted his reserves. It sure seems fucking weird that Tim is numb to the needs and wants of others after ignoring his own and never actually being taught emotional intelligence by any of his absentee parents.
If Tim could be bothered to give a fuck, he feels vindicated in simply not caring. Bruce was an ass, Dick ostracized Alvin from the hero community, and Alfred never intervened. Continually, neither the crime lord nor the demon spawn have apologized for their attempted fratricide.
… Is it fratricide if Alvin was never adopted? Dick would call them brothers and the brother of your brother is your brother, right?
Fucking hell this is why he was avoiding the Waynes.
He should just shut his pie hole, smile tersely, and leave as soon as it's socially appropriate.
That's a grand plan.
He can go home, drown his woes in Zesti, and send a box of roaches to Ra's. Maybe he'll sign Lex up to Martha Stewart's email subscriptions. Tim can find an annoying prank to cheer himself up and leave this meeting in stilted silence.
Tim is going to do something really fucking dumb.
Ignoring his bullshit question about salads, Tim addresses Bruce. “Mr. Wayne, I wasn't aware you had so many children. Is this all of them?” The socialite chuckle that followed would have made Janet proud.
Several of the Waynes tense, but Bruce flashes a politely sad smile.
“No. As the news outlets say, I have a bit of an adoption problem. Even if some of the kids aren't mine legally, there are a few that are missing from this dinner.”
Tim takes a polite sip from his water as he hums. His eyes dart to the side as if recalling a thought. He sets his glass back down and stares at Duke.
“You're the newest kid, right? How are you adjusting to…” Tim visibly counts each person in the room besides Barbara, Steph, Bruce, and himself, “four siblings? With additional family friends, of course.” The teen sends a placating smile to Barbara and Steph as if trying to include them last minute.
Duke's eyes become a little less friendly which Tim almost feels bad about. If he was a little less numb, the anxiety would be vicious. As it is, he only feels a spike of amusement at Dick's gritted smile.
“I have five siblings, actually.”
Tim's eyes flicker back to Duke, an inquisitive smile on his lips. “And where is this last sibling of yours?”
Jason is the one to speak up with a harsh rebuke. “He's dead, asshole.”
When Tim's eyes snap to Jason's in surprise, the man can see brief emotions flash behind the cool steel Tim had previously been portraying. Jason's anger freezes at the longing, grief, hope, hurt, betrayal, anger, fear, resignation, bitterness that quickly closes off to impassiveness.
Wrenching away eye contact, the smile Tim paints is sympathetic and apologetic. “I didn't mean to bring up tough memories. I merely wanted to learn more about your family, but it seems I overstepped. Heavens know I'm a wreck when people discuss my folks.”
Tim laughs, but he's internally cussing himself out for his tendency to cause chaos.
There's an awkward but sympathetic air at the table, most of the occupants have lost their parents as well. Bruce shifts in his seat and his lips part as he goes to mention something, probably along the lines of offering condolences or remarking on the news covering the Drakes’ demise.
Whatever was going to come out of his mouth gets cut off by the sound of the windows breaking and everyone in the restaurant getting thrown by the shockwave of a bomb going off.
Most of the Waynes manage to reach safety or mitigate the potential injury to themselves. Tim, being registered as a civilian, gets tackled right as he's maneuvering himself. The combination of being body slammed, Tim's unexpected movement, and the table swaying with the blast create a series of events leading to the teen smacking his skull upon hardwood and then tile floor.
His last thought before losing consciousness is I didn't mean literally kill Tim Drake .
The smell of antiseptic and that specific nursing home scent registers first. There are muffled noises of movement and the sound of several people breathing. This was enough to clue Tim into the fact that he was taken to the hospital. The teen bit back a groan at the idea of managing the press and medical team.
At Tim's visible displeasure, the shifting in the room increases.
“Timothy?”
Bruce's voice being the first Tim hears should be a sin. So should being called Timothy while laid up in a hospital bed.
Squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights, Tim glares at Bruce. The pounding in his head is softened by the painkillers being fed to his veins. The combination of the two makes thinking the same as navigating a foreign country's fogged smog completely naked. It's unpleasant, embarrassing, and extremely strenuous.
To Tim's horror, Bruce's face softens into fondness and pity at the teen's glare. Someone needs to free him from the hospital bed right fucking now.
“How are you feeling, chum?”
He feels like committing patricide.
Is it considered patricide? He wasn't ever adopted by the man. Bruce wasn't truly his dad, despite what Tim might’ve wanted. Their relationship was strictly professional. Tim was the distraction and the therapist while Bruce provided Tim with training and resources. Therefore, Tim can't feel like commiting fratricide. His actual dad is dead.
He still wants to commit a murder. What's the term for killing your mentor?
It takes several minutes for Tim to drag his scrambled brain back to the present. By this point, Bruce had called the doctors in and plastered a worried look upon his face.
Tim is so tired of Brucie Wayne's act. He wishes the man would stop at least when the teen is laid up in a hospital bed. It's a foolish wish. Tim hasn't gotten what he needs for years now.
The CEO focuses on the woman performing checks on his well being. She isn't Leslie, but it isn't like Bruce can force Tim to go to the Wayne family doctor after a public incident.
Finally, after all the tests are over, she turns to Mr. Wayne.
“Well, it seems that he suffers from a moderate concussion-”
Tim clears his throat.
The doctor turns to him. “Is there something that you need, Mr. Drake?”
Tim's fingers twitch as he tries to grasp his roaming thoughts. He has the vague sense of not wanting the Waynes to hear his medical information and legality. He's not sure how it connects quite yet, though.
Taking a stab at what's probably the issue, Tim mutters out, “PHI?”
The doctor's brows furrow as she reads her clipboard with patient information. Her eyes widen slightly before she reaches Timothy Drake's eyes.
“I am so very sorry, Mr. Drake. We can leave the medical decisions to the ethical board until you are recovered enough.”
The teen frowns in discomfort at that idea. His options are a group of strangers making decisions for him or the Waynes deciding for Timothy Drake.
His only saving grace is the medical alert band he wears about his lack of spleen. Hopefully they noticed that and disinfected his cut.
If Tim were aware enough, he'd be viciously denying either options. He emancipated himself for a reason. He gets to make decisions for Timothy Drake.
Despite his best efforts, the world starts to blur out of focus. It's not long before he's passing out again.
When Tim wakes up, he notices the room is packed with the legally claimed Waynes (or Duke, Jason, Dick, Damian, Cass, and Bruce). They are discussing something about concussions symptoms (mood swings and confusion), but rapidly quiet noticing his wakefulness.
The teen's eyes dart from person to person, but something seems off.
Holy shit. He knows he complained about the pain, but should he be able to see colors right now?
Wait.
Yes. Tim should always be able to see colors. He's not colorblind.
He's not colorblind.
With watery arctic eyes, his gaze lands on Duke’s face. He can barely get the phrase out, but it's important that the younger teen is aware of this fact.
“I'm not colorblind.”
Duke freezes and nods slowly. “Yes?”
Tim starts crying harder. His words become muddled with his slurring. “I sssssee colors!”
Duke sends a panicked look towards the other family members before glancing back at Tim. “Is this a new development?”
Tim gasps as his eyes widen even farther. “I've always seeeee color. Woah!”
There's a startled laugh from somewhere in the room and Tim frowns. He slowly becomes more and more dejected and curls his legs closer to himself.
“Hey, hey. Wait. What's wrong?” Duke, the apparently appointed Tim manager of the day, reaches out for the tiny office worker. At the glare he receives, Duke takes his hand back.
Tim murmurs, but Duke is able to hear him.
“Yeah. It's really shitty that he laughed at you.” There's the sound of someone being hit, but the teen can't hear or focus on it. Tim continues glaring at the obvious smile on Duke's face. “You're concussed at the moment, Tim.”
He scrunches his face in thought, before sighing. He lets go of his knees. The teen is still unhappy, but he's no longer pouting.
“Wasn't nice.”
There's a few sympathetic hums before Tim's mood rapidly flips to energetic again.
“ I power my attorney.”
Bruce chuckles at the declaration. It seems that Tim's back to thinking about who has medical authority over him.
Tim cocks his head as he glances over at Bruce. His eyes squint in suspicion and he scrunches his nose.
“You have too many kids.”
Cass snorts and a few of the Bats are startled into laughter.
“Alvin yours?” His mind went back to that debate about patricide again. He can't quite tell why alarm bells are ringing in his mind, but he figures it's just the pulsing headache.
A wave of grief seems to hit the room and bewilder the teen out of his conjectures about bells. There's a confused wrinkle to Tim's forehead as he glances around the room. “Why are you sad?”
Some of the stares he receives in turn are incredulous, but Bruce is patient with the concussed patient. He sighs with a soft frown.
“Yes, Alvin was one of my kids. He died almost a year ago. He was caught in a bombing when he was overseas.”
Tim's nose crinkles. “No.” He huffs and rolls his eyes.
Bad decision, Tim. No rolling eyes with a concussion.
Wait… Did they say Alvin was dead? Like bombed? Like, boom?
The teen giggles to himself while making little explosions with his hands. Despite his sudden wave of dizziness, Tim will persevere. He will avenge Alvin by letting his family know he’s safe. It's a perfect plan.
“He didn't explode.” He makes another explosion hand sign.
The active Bats share looks as they silently debate who's going to be breaking the news to the severely confused teen. A few even look a little pissed off.
Dick leans forward. “Tim, listen. Alvin's…” There's a slight hitch to Dick's voice, but he powers through. “He's gone.”
Tim's face lights up in realization as he nods.
He grimaces in pain at the movement, but is able to stay on track. There's not a trace of grief on his face. He smiles. “Yes. He's gone, but he’s still here.”
Besides Cass, who is being particularly quiet, the rest of the family come to the agreement to finish this discussion later. The teen is obviously too addled to understand.
They would've put a pin in it if it weren't for the horrified gasps from Tim. He slams his hands, somewhat sloppily, over his mouth. Wide eyes look around the room.
“Tim?” The kid isn't sure who said that, so he focuses back on Duke.
“Sober Tim is going to be so mad.”
Damian's eyes narrow at this remark. “What do you mean by that, Drake?”
Foggy eyes drift to the youngest. “Promise me you won't tell him?”
Jason's voice is hesitant as it pipes up. “Tell… sober Tim?”
At the thumbs up, another silent agreement is made by the clear-thinking members of the room.
Dick smiles as he lies to Tim. “We promise.”
For a moment, the glassy and distant haze to Tim's mind disappears. He regards the family with such abrupt shrewdness that the Waynes catch themselves holding their breaths. It's easier to parse the emotions and thoughts the young CEO has than usual. All of them get a sense of disappointment and the taste of bitter resignation before it vanishes beneath the doopy gaze from before. Dread settles in their gut, the feeling that they failed a test, but none are aware of what exactly just happened.
The teen giggles as he leans forwards. “Alvin isn't dead. You can't tell future Tim I told you.”
The silence that follows is tense enough to cause any non-vigilante to flee. The family rapidly exchanges silent conversations about what they are going to address. Obviously, the teen isn't in his right mind. There's a possibility he's just confused or mistaken.
On the other hand, he knew Alvin's name. No one but close family members knew the kid was even associated with the Waynes. If Tim wasn't a long standing proven ally of the Bats, their suspicion would be deadly to the perceived deception. Playing around with a loved dead one is vile.
No one wants to believe Tim. No one wants him to be wrong. The last time someone didn't believe a teen about someone's state of living, that teen wound up presumed dead.
Cass breaks the silent debate by signing He believes what he says.
While this doesn't rule out the possibility that Tim is merely disoriented, this does eliminate the chance of merciless trickery.
Duke breaks the silence first. “Why can't we tell Sober Tim?”
Tim scrunches his nose and huffs. “Cause Alvin is supposed to stay gone.”
If any of the Bats had glanced at Cass, her amused smile might’ve cued them in on how telling that statement actually was. Instead, they stare at Bruce for clarification.
“Buddy, what do you mean by that?”
“By what?”
The man rubs his face as he represses a sigh. “Why is Alvin supposed to stay gone?”
Tim stuck out his tongue. “He wouldn't want you to know.”
“Sober Tim?”
Bruce was sent the most deadpan look. “Alvin.”
The teen, once again tired from expending his energy while injured, misses the emotions that flash through all of the Waynes’ faces. He yawns and sleepily glares at his visitors. “Go ‘way.”
Bruce's jaw clenches and the teen doesn't miss the expression of frustration and hurt. “Just one more question.”
The teen hums agreement as he starts to fluff up his pillows in preparation for sleep.
“How do you know Alvin?”
Tim suddenly pauses his movements and slowly looks up at Bruce. His eyes narrow as he scowls.
“You a cop?”
Cass snorts in the background as Dick looks offended. Jason and Duke appear to support Tim's notion.
Bruce quickly shakes his head and Tim sends him a dubious glare.
“Fine. I know him cause I’ve actually met his parents.”
Bruce's eyebrows raise as Damian's furrow. The youngest scowls as he crosses his arms.
“Why does Drake speak as if you haven't, Father?”
The man grimaces and starts to intently regard his hands. Tim wonders if he can see his own faults in those lines. “When Alvin appeared in our lives, I wasn't the most supportive.”
The snort Tim gives has the same impression as if he called that an understatement. His eyes are drooping, but the affronted face of Damian is amusing. Bruce doesn't look up, but he continues.
“The only facts I knew about Alvin were those he offered up himself. I wasn't much of a father to him. I don't even think I saw his true face.”
Whether that statement refers to Tim's disguise skills or his acting, he isn't sure. Knowing Bruce, it's probably both.
Jason seems to be having some sort of world crashing realizations, but Tim's tired. He's had enough of the Waynes to last him the rest of the year.
“I answered. Go ‘way.” The teen huffs as he turns his back on them. He snuggles into the hospital blanket for rest letting out a content sigh. It takes a moment, but the other members of the room depart. Tim's asleep before they all exit.
It is several days later and Tim has been chasing the Waynes out of his room as much as possible. He knows he fucked up, but he's not going to answer their questions. Instead, the concussion has faded enough to leave Tim with regrets. Many regrets. He doesn't know whether to be thankful or not that he retains his recent memories.
It seems that concussed Tim is just as manipulative and evaluative as mentally precise Tim. The issue stems from that Tim not caring about the repercussions or about hiding his abilities.
Sober Tim would've been reassured that he can not trust the Waynes with his well-being or his fragile state. Previous Tim wanted proof.
The teen sighs as he stares at the grubby ceiling. For being a Gotham hospital, the stains aren't too appalling. He can look at them and feel like he's not getting medical treatment at a backdoor clinic again. The cleanliness must be Wayne money at work.
If it wouldn't cause issues, Tim would slip out and be in his own bed within the hour. He can't have any caffeine, but he could drink juice or tea. On his own bed surrounded by his mountains of blankets, he could softly play a podcast or music. Screen time and reading are prohibited, but he could make do. He's made do with worse.
Anything but a hospital.
There's some recollection in his mind of a tired Tim refusing to go to Wayne Manor and the Waynes being too worried about him recovering by himself. Bruce seems to have come to the solution of wasting money on a hospital bed. As long as Tim isn't paying that bill, fuck it. At least it’s not Wayne Manor.
Although he's not completely recovered and he's certainly still in pain, the concussion has cleared enough for the teen to think rationally. It's faded enough for him to remember all of the responsibilities and meetings he's missed while laid up in this damned bed.
Fuck Bruce, honestly. Yes, Tim is going to blame it all on Bruce. If Tim had it his way, he would have never gone to that stupid luncheon.
But nooooo. The man had insisted Tim go.
Now Tim has a recovery time of at least a week with no screens. He can't even do his damned job as the Wayne Family money maker. Worse, he can't monitor Ra's and other villains during his downtime. He may have prevention and tracking systems running, but that doesn't compare to the actual checks Tim runs at least once a week.
Fuck.
He doesn't even want to know what the fallout will be for revealing Alvin is alive.
Stupid concussed Tim.
If the Waynes believe the addled teen, there's no way they'll be quiet in their search. They'll turn up every stone and shake out the attention of Ra's.
Double fuck.
Perhaps he should fake medical complications and run away.
Cass would find his ass within a week. He can’t disappear and become one with nature.
Godsdamnit. Tim will have to settle for escapism fantasies to relieve his stress from the fallout.