Archive of Our Own ^beta

Timothy Jackson Drake is born with his family’s high hopes pinned on him. With the meeting of two Drake lines, he’s to be the strongest mage in their ranks just yet. Stronger than Janet’s great-grandmother, who passed away at the ripe old age of 159, still as beautiful and fresh-faced as she was when she turned thirty.

However, to everybody’s utter disgust, Timothy Jackson Drake… is born magicless.

His mother, distraught, takes him from magician to magician, witch and hedgewitch, hoping for an unwittingly tripped curse, some magical dam, even just the mark of a disgruntled fae, but it is all for naught. Baby Tim is a perfectly happy baby boy, if a little bit underweight. With no aptitude for magic whatsoever.

Tim is… perfectly normal.

A laughing stock.

Baby Tim, pink-cheeked and cooing sweetly, is passed on to a wet nurse. He gets installed in the west wing of his parents’ lavish mansion in the heart of Gotham city, to only be spoken of in passing, and then quickly forgotten. Little Tim grows from babe to toddler to precocious little boy under the watchful gaze of the staff.

All the while, unbeknownst to him, Janet and Jack live undisturbed in the east wing, desperately trying for a proper heir. Someone with all the magic their lines promised. Someone worthy of the prestigious Drake name.

They say it was the stress of all their family’s expectations, but Janet never gets pregnant again. It is as if Timothy sucked up all of her fertility and claimed it for his own. All for a dud.

It takes Janet until Tim’s fifth birthday to reconcile with the fact that their family will forever shun them for disappointing them so. That Tim is all they’ll ever have. It takes her years to console herself with the fact that Timothy’s genes may still carry their magic, if he himself does not, and perhaps his offspring will be what their family has been dreaming of.

Another great Drake mage.

She applies herself to educate her son, drawing in Jack as well, so Timothy knows the mechanics of magic, even if he himself is unable to use that talent. So long as their family spells will be preserved and passed on, Janet is willing to make this sacrifice. It doesn’t make her love their failed attempt more, but it does make her more amenable.

They pore over grimoires in her room. She teaches Timothy all about herbs, poisons, and how to spot curses, and she is almost appeased. She hesitantly resigns herself to her fate of obscurity.

Right until Jack finds an ancient ruin with rumours of wild magic passing through it on every Autumn equinox.

And then the illusion of her capitulation shatters.

Even if the wild magic turns out to be a sprite coming to celebrate, it is still a glimmer of hope, to redeem herself by elevating her offspring to family levels. Once she tastes the elusive taste of it, she cannot stop anymore.

They take Timothy with them to dig after dig, hunting for rumours and cursed artefacts. They even try to locate a genie, never mind that they are all known to be extinct. Once she gains her second wind, she’s unstoppable.

Unfortunately, they cannot take a small child with them everywhere. It’s unseemly, as well as impractical, given that Timothy has grown old enough to go to school by the time she stops for a single minute to take stock. And they can’t very well employ a fleet of schoolteachers and drag them with the family from dig to dig.

No. Timothy is sent to a prestigious boarding school, the best one in all of Gotham. Even if he’s without magic, he’s still a Drake, and Janet would have raised hell if he weren’t treated thusly.

Luckily for her disappointing offspring, magic there is not a requirement. Money is. As well as prestige, of which they still have a little, given that Janet is one of the top names in magical beauty remedies, disappointing breeding abilities notwithstanding.

This is how Tim gains entry into the school that shapes him into the young man he is fated to become.

Dorm life suits Tim. He’s been living with teachers, nurses, and maids his entire life. He’s used to rigorous routine and impersonal conversation. He’s less used to the sheer amount of children around him, but Tim is clever, friendly and most of all, adaptable.

He’s also starved for knowledge not pertaining to the magic he cannot use, but most of all what he craves is the closeness and friendship of his peers. In the prestigious boarding school his parents stored him for safekeeping, Tim thrives.

In Brentwood, he isn’t a disappointment or an oddity. There are people cursed to only exist at certain times of the day, halflings and shameful bastards, as well as children society at large would deem acceptable. The school cares not who they are, what they are. So long as they keep to the rules, they are expected to stay and graduate.

The kids don’t care a lot, either. Tim soon learns that what he experiences as exhilarating freedom others view as a cage. That Brentwood is a prison of sorts. They band together in solidarity, and Tim keeps his mouth shut so he’ll be included.

And included he is. He plays boisterously in the well-kept, but sparse gardens, sneaks off with the others to steal food from the pantry, and cheats the curfew to play games in his friends’ dorm at night. It’s the perfect life Tim has always dreamed of, stifled in his family’s Manor by his parent’s sheer disappointment in his entire existence.

Even if Brentwood is big and gloomy, and it is apparent to everybody it was not built with the children’s welfare in mind. The rooms are large and any noise, even the tiniest whisper echoes. Its lavish staircases bear the mark of time spent with children. There are always new carpets laid over them, but they are worn to shreds in months. The classrooms, even the ones with bigger windows, are always dark, as if the sunlight simply refuses to enter them.

The school wing is entirely devoid of warmth and cheer. The teachers aren’t all harsh, and as far as Tim can tell, none of them are mean, but they are all very formal. Many of the boys need time to adjust, having come from warm, loving homes. Tim is secretly jealous, but he never shows it. He offers his solidarity instead, sitting with those crying and offers some nice words, if he can.

It’s no surprise Tim soon becomes well-liked. Boys flock to him for his gentle personality, taking his reserved mannerism for timidness. He doesn’t correct them, he just learns from them about how to act like a young boy.

He meets his best friend at Brentwood, who is his very first friend in his entire life. He’s called Sebastian Ives, and his intelligence is only matched by his paranoia. Tim learns he’s a fairy gift, and not to leave the school grounds until he turns eighteen, lest he wilts into nothing. (Eighteen is when the clause will be broken, and he’ll finally be set free.) Ives is sickly and never says thank you, as his life might be forfeit if he showed gratitude to the wrong person. (Luckily Tim has no trouble deciphering he knocks three times instead.)

They get along like a house on fire.

Tim’s first step on the road to becoming his own man is all thanks to Ives, too. Tim’s ample knowledge of magic and lore is what prompts him to take up classes at the smithy, and craft his best friend jewellery made from iron. Hammering on hot metal feels very therapeutic, and while it doesn’t help him to fully fill the void left by his parents, it does leach away his hidden cache of rage.

It also helps Ives, whose dorm room is fast becoming the safest place to exist in the entire school.

Tim’s alchemy professor, who teaches metallurgy at the smithy, is overseeing the practical studies as well. He’s overjoyed to find the “hidden potential” of the Drake dud, and Tim is given extra time and more thorough lessons. Soon enough, he gets his own key to the smithy, the small building at the back of the property, as he’s deemed mature enough to handle such responsibility.

Unsurprisingly, left to roam free in his element, Tim takes to smithing and crafting delicate jewellery like duck to water.

He takes on more metallurgy and smithing classes specially tailored to him with the collective nod of the school board, since his parents cannot be reached. (Yet again.) The school’s only requirement is that Tim’s attendance of the regular subjects doesn’t suffer. (Little do they know Tim’s running laps around most of his teachers.)

So Tim learns more about fusing metals, and crafting delicate jewellery, as well as machinery. 

It’s fun to do, and it helps him earn some pocket money.

He’s never surprised that his parents forget to send him packages with clothes or money to purchase items he needs for his life at Brentwood. Tim has devised a method to ensure he doesn’t have to beg his fellow schoolmates for hand-me-downs. (He’s so lucky Ives gave him some of his old clothing in the beginning of the first school year, or he would have been forced to ask the school board to take action.)

In his letters to his parents, he doubles or triples the amount he requests. He never knows how long it’ll be before the letter even reaches them, never mind when they will remember to send him anything— or how much money will arrive.

Tim taking requests at the smithy solves that little problem. He never asks for too much, and always tailors his price to the person and their means. That is, unless the request is something outlandish.

But horseshoes, warding symbols, or even just a simple picture frame are cheap. And Tim needs the experience, so he can move onto more delicate, more specialised crafts, so he’s fine with taking only a little. It adds up fast, anyway.

By the time Tim has his own key, he has plenty of items to sell. There are entire boxes of mixed religious symbols and pocket-wards ready for the taking, separated by metal type. (Tim learnt the hard way, and so did some of the halflings, that they are sensitive to anything with iron in it.)

He is fast becoming the master of his craft, and more people take notice.

When a retired professor comes for a visit, summoned by the apparent rumours of a smithing prodigy, Tim meets Lucius Fox: the man who drew the plans and built the more delicate parts of machinery of Gotham’s monument to gothic metalcraft—the Clocktower.

Tim, predictably, is at a loss for words.

He has been fascinated with the building since the first time he saw it, and using his newfound freedom in the confines of Brentwood, learnt all he could. When the man, The Man, who Tim wished he could have studied from, steps into the building, he drops the piece of metal into the bucket of water. It sizzles, and he struggles to find it through the cloud of steam covering his face. By sheer luck alone, the bucket doesn’t burn through, but Tim’s face certainly is ablaze.

“I was told I’d find Timothy Drake here,” Lucius Fox says, looking at Tim before he looks at the displays holding all of Tim’s works. (By the time Tim has begun his 15th year of age, the smithy has become more or less his own domain.) There are demon traps, canary cages, wind chimes, and a few perpetual motion toys he’s very proud of.

The boxes of jewellery are inspected and ignored, and Tim watches with his heart in his throat as Mr Fox pokes at one of the toys, and they start to move. The balls dance and the pipes spin on their own in delicate spirals.

“I’m Tim Drake,” he says almost hesitantly, faced with his legend.

“Are these your works?” the man asks, pointing at the spinning, whirring, swaying toys that get put in motion one after the other.

“Yes.”

“They are very well-crafted. Have you been taught metallurgy or smithing before?”

Tim shakes his head. He’s feeling all too giddy for words, and he squeezes his safety gloves in sheer excitement so he doesn’t vibrate out of his skin.

Mr. Fox hums. “Quite well done then, I’ll say. Quite well done. Have you been thinking about what profession you’d like to choose once you graduate?”

Tim nods, because he has. Ever since he discovered his talent for bending metal into whatever shape he wanted, he has been dreaming of becoming his own man. Once he turns a legal adult, his parents can’t force him into chasing their unattainable dream of magic.

“I’d… I’d like to work as a tinkerer.”

“That’s fortunate,” Mr. Fox says. “For I’ve been looking for such a young man as you are. Seeing your work I must say, I do not believe your family’s claim that you have no talent. You have quite the one, young man, just not the one they want.”

Tim swallows. These are the words he’s been always longing for, coming from someone he’s always admired. He fears he might cry, if he opens his mouth, so he nods instead.

“Well, you are still quite young, but I’d hate to see such talent go to waste. While I am certainly retired from teaching, I would like, with the school’s permission, to have you work in my workshop as my intern one day a week, if it’d suit you.” Tim is already nodding before Mr. Fox goes on. “But only after I’ve ascertained that you can match the skills we require. Would you be willing to give it a try?”

Tim nods. He nods so hard his wet hair flies in the humid air and pastes itself onto his sweaty face. His eyes burn, his mouth hurts from the wide grin he’s sporting, but he says yes with certainty he can feel oozing from his pores.

“Well then. I shall discuss it with the headmaster. I believe we do not need to ask permission from your parents?”

Tim shakes his head vigorously. He cannot say what he wants to say, but he’s certain from the shrewd look Mr. Fox throws his way that they both know his parents would be horrified and possibly outright disgusted with Tim’s life choices. It’s a good thing they never care enough to be around and learn of it. And even better that Mr. Fox doesn’t care to ask them. He asks Tim instead.

For days after the visit Tim is in a daze. When he’s called into the headmaster’s office with the offer of apprenticeship, and the man offers him cookies from his own tray, Tim knows nobody cares, nor wants to inform his parents. He is branded as a success story, and contacting his parents could only throw a wrench in the proceedings. Therefore, with the decision of the school board, Tim is allowed to attend Mr. Fox’s workshop every Saturday.

His parents, who rarely visit him (perhaps twice a year, if Tim is lucky), remain none the wiser. Sometimes Tim still feels a pang for his mother. He misses those quiet evenings spent with her in her boudoir, poring over books. She’d wear her silk robe with her dark hair loose and glittering in the lamplight as she’d bring cream after cream to Tim for inspection. He’d have to guess the ingredients by smell and sight alone, and if he guessed right, his reward would be her smile.

She’d look upon him proudly, and he’d shiver with delight at having finally attained her recognition, however fleeting it was.

Mr. Fox’s recognition, on the other hand, is warm and lasting. Tim learns whatever he’s taught. Finishes whatever task is set in front of him. He meets all goals and exceeds them.

But most of all, Mr. Fox’s workshop is bright and warm, like the man himself. Its huge windows catch and collect the sparse Gotham sunlight, painting the room in a soft yellow glow. It’s cluttered with half-finished projects and experiments, and for Tim it feels more homey than his family’s Manor ever was.

There’s a workbench reserved just for him from the very first time he steps foot in there, and it stays his throughout his apprenticeship. Nobody touches it or encroaches on his space, even though he’s only there once a week. Tim never felt more included in his entire life. From the day he enters the apprenticeship, he feels like he truly belongs.

Inspired by his mentor, who trusts him, he puts even more effort into mastering the craft.

Soon enough, he hears there are talks of Mr. Fox grooming Tim to become his replacement once he fully retires, but Tim doesn’t dare to plan that far ahead. Even if the idea fills his heart with pure joy at the mere thought. He likes Mr. Fox, he likes his workshop that is cozy and full of wondrous things. He likes the work he’s doing now, building parts of delicate automatons for Mr. Fox’s employer.

For more than a year, Tim is the happiest he’s ever been, even without the promise for more.

When he’s a little over seventeen, just starting his last year at Brentwood, he’s finally called to the headmaster’s office. Tim can barely contain his excitement. Lucius has been subtly hinting that he’d like to take Tim on as a real apprentice sooner rather than later, and that perhaps Tim could spend most of his afternoons in the workshop. That he could start taking over more of Lucius’s workload.

Tim would miss the evenings spent with Ives and his other friends, and he’d certainly miss the stolen moments with Bernard and their budding relationship, but it’d mean he’d have an existence, and a job waiting for him after he leaves Brentwood. He knows his friends would understand. He knows Ives would be more than happy to know Tim was taken care of. What’s more, Ives would be interested in a job at Wayne Industries of Machine Technology himself, once he turns eighteen and graduates, and with Tim in a position to put in a good word for him, it’d be a lot easier.

He’s positively giddy with excitement when he sits down, but tries to school his expression into polite interest as he faces the old man.

“Mr. Drake,” Mr. Bond starts. His face is expressionless, a stark difference from how he usually treats Tim, their very own success story. Tim’s heart plummets through the ground. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

They don’t want him, Tim thinks. They’ve found someone else, someone better, someone perhaps with magic, or… Or someone who has loving parents and a family name that still carries some clout.

“Mr. Fox…” he says weakly, still hoping desperately to somehow change the old man’s decision.

“No,” Mr. Bond waves it away with a tinge of annoyance crossing his pink face. “No, it’s not about that. Mr. Fox still wants to take you on, and actually now this should be easier to arrange, since…” He sighs, and schools his face into polite seriousness again. “I’m so sorry I have to tell you this, my boy, but your parents have passed away.”

The room tilts and spins around Tim like one of his perpetual motion machines. He grabs hold of the edge of the mahogany desk while he tries to pay attention to the headmaster’s speech. He drones on, trying to offer Tim his condolences, and two weeks of time away to organise and attend the funeral.

With a chaperone, for he is still a student of Brentwood, and no rules can be broken, even for such an esteemed young pupil as Tim is.

“My tuition…” Tim says woodenly.

“All covered. Paid for in full when we took you on. You shall be a student at our school until you graduate. Guardianship, in the case of such unfortunate events as this, is transferred to the school board until our pupils turn eighteen years of age.”

Tim nods. Strangely he feels relieved. He never even thought his extended family might try to fight for guardianship, but he’s immensely glad they cannot.

“May I…” He stops and tries to word his plea in a logical fashion, so as to not arouse suspicion. “May I stay at my family home? If my family arrives, I wish to be there to... welcome them.”

Mr. Bond, possibly relieved that Tim hasn’t fallen to pieces or broken down crying, acquiesces. “Of course, my boy. I’ll ready a car. Will you be all right alone for the night, until we can find you a chaperone? I know I can trust you to uphold our good name, but appearances, as you know…”

Tim nods.

“Yes, Mr. Bond. I’ll stay at the Manor and only open the door to family or one of my teachers.” Anything to arrive there before his extended family and their grubby hands. And if he’s alone while he empties his old family home of anything of importance or worth to sell, well, all the better.

“Quite right, quite right. You are, of course, of very good stock. One of our very best, well-behaved boys, if I do say so myself. I know I can count on you.”

Tim is ushered out of the office, and probably out of the old man’s mind as soon as possible. He doesn’t mind. He’s still reeling from shock, and is terrified of his estranged family descending upon him. He cannot count on his parents’ protection anymore. He has nobody now. He only has himself.

No. That’s not correct. He has himself, and his veritable armoury against malicious magic.

He takes a detour to the smithy. There are more than enough protective charms and portable wards to choose from, so he stuffs his pockets with as many as he can carry.

He has a small, delicate pendant wrought from gold and cold iron in his room. He doesn’t use silver, not when it could make the halflings susceptible to coercion, but he does have a small amount of cold steel, worked over a cold anvil. His own protection pendant, similar to the one he made for Ives, contains enough of that cold iron to ward off even the mightiest of witches, should they set their sights on him.

The delicate golden filigree woven in the arcane shapes of warding symbols is just the icing on the cake. Tim has always been cautious where his family was concerned, and he’s not going to break tradition now. His mother has coached him well in regards to his family history. He knows them better, much better than they know him.

When he steps out of the gates and into the automobile, he’s ready to go toe-to-toe with even the most dangerous ones. But only if he has to. Tim would much rather prefer a family that loved him, but so far his experience has been not the best in that regard.

The ride is short. The car is modern and sleek. He can spot that it’s a newer Wayne design. Tim barely feels the motion while he draws up plans. He doesn’t know yet where he’ll hide his family’s valuables, but it cannot be on Drake grounds.

The grimoires, feeling abandoned, would attempt to call out to blood.

He comes to the conclusion that there is only one place he can hide his family’s heirlooms, and for that he’ll need help. And a tremendous amount of luck, as well as taking advantage of his headmaster’s goodwill.

As he exits the car, he turns to the driver.

“I know it is late,” he tells the chauffeur, who looks entirely disinterested, but polite. “But I’ve only just realised I have no clothes that would fit me. I have not been home for years now. May I request that you wait for me while I telephone the school, so I may return for a change of formal clothes and come back? I’d compensate you for your trouble, if you could wait for a little while, of course.”

The man eyes Tim, looks at Drake Manor bathed in the soft glow of the lamps, and nods. “Of course, Mr. Drake. Take your time.”

Tim sprints inside.

The ornate door springs open at his touch. By all intents and purposes—Tim is so very very glad that his parents remembered to at least not strike him completely from their family tree—he’s recognized as the new master of the place. His ancestral home is his.

He closes the door and springs into action. Upstairs, he grabs one of his father’s remaining suitcases, opens it, and leaves it on the floor while he goes into his mother’s boudoir to collect her recipe books, grimoires, and her diaries as well. On his next trip, he collects all of her jewellery he can find. Anything of import (to her or Tim), anything with any monetary value, goes into the bag.

Next, he raids his father’s study. Jack Drake mostly collected old archaeology journals and countless additions to his prized cursed statuette collection, but there are also his own grimoires on curse breaking and magical cyphers. Tim collects everything, and stuffs them all into the suitcase. By the time he feels he’s collected the most important items, the bag is full.

Winded, he makes the call to his school. He apologises terribly for the interruption, but he only just realised he has nothing to wear, as he left the school grounds without a bag of his own, so distracted was he by his loss. He fears it’d paint the school in a horrible light if he greeted his family in wrinkled, slept-in clothes, so if he’d be allowed to get back to his dorm to take a change of clothes with him, he’d be eternally grateful.

He also reassures the teacher on call that he is fully willing to reimburse the chauffeur, which smooths things over faster than he’d have thought. He’s allowed to make the trip back with no questions asked and a polite apology on the teacher’s part. Certainly, they should have thought of this themselves, but how fortuitous that Tim himself did.

Tim hangs up, and sighs in overwhelming relief. Lady Luck might still smile on him from time to time.

Not wanting to waste time, he crouches next to the well-packed suitcase, struggling to keep its contents inside it as he flips it closed. When he locks it, it suddenly shrinks, its sides sloping in, giving it the illusion of emptiness—just like all of Jack Drake’s suitcases. How lucky that the enchantment didn’t evaporate from the old brocade after his father’s death! Tim hefts it up, glad for the muscles he gained through hammering metal into obedience, and exits the Manor.

He waves the chauffeur’s assistance away, pretending the suitcase is empty and only with him to be filled with clothes. How he’ll empty it and switch it out he has no idea, but he hopes he can just replace it with one of his own suitcases. He hasn’t seen them for so long he doesn’t even remember what they looked like. They live shoved into the back of his designated wardrobe, collecting dust bunnies.

He rides back to Brentwood with his fists clenched hard around the handle of his father’s bag. He knows the chances of his family hunting him down are slim to none, especially with the protective warding pendant he has (with the cold steel inside), but he’s still worried. His mother told him about the disappointment and thinly-veiled barbs she had to endure, and Tim knows they’d stop at nothing to see him thrown out with only the clothes on his back.

Once back at Brentwood, he practically runs up the steps, heavy bag in hand.

His dorm mate is away, probably in someone else’s room, and for that Tim is eternally thankful. While Colin is a good kid, he might still want to snoop, and Tim doesn’t need that. Not now (if ever). He pulls out all of his clothes on hangers and throws them on his bed. He has to shift his old things a little so he can finally yank out his dusty travel bag that is… not as dissimilar as it could be. It’s dark, and he hopes the chauffeur won’t be too interested.

Tim can only hope his family won’t go to such lengths, but who knows. He is certain he can’t be careful enough where they are concerned. Still, he stuffs his full bag with all of his family’s heirlooms into the back of his wardrobe, throws his old clothes on top, hangs back whatever he doesn’t need, and throws in a few changes of clothes, his spare uniform, socks and underwear in there. He’s certain he can borrow some of his father’s mourning clothes, if he were pressed, even though he is still a bit on the smallish side at seventeen.

When he closes his wardrobe, he locks it, then uses a secondary lock he installed. It’s entry point is small and hidden, from the outside it looks like a grain in the wood, but it has a strong mechanism on the inside. It’s made of cold iron and bathed in salt. Tim installed it against his own parents, but it’d certainly work against his extended family, too. Anybody with magic (like Colin, his roommate) would be kept out and away.

Then again, Colin has been trustworthy so far. Tim isn’t worried about him. Nobody would dare to be a jerk to him, or the others would surely turn on them that instant. (Tim doesn't like to sound conceited, but he is well-liked amongst the students, and right now he is banking on it.)

So Tim stands and zips up his bag. Locking it shut, he tries not to shake it too hard, or else his bed would be covered in dust, and leaves. While he knows the chauffeur would be politely waiting in hopes of a good tip, there is still his teachers to consider. He would rather not reveal to them that he has his entire fortune stowed away in their school for safekeeping.

While the student body he trusts, Tim wouldn’t be so certain one of the teachers wouldn’t try to get a peek, or a memento.

“Was worried you got lost,” the chauffeur sighs. He gets out from behind the wheel to open Tim’s door.

Tim shrugs. “Lots of condolences to accept. My apologies.”

“Nah,” the man waves it away. “Don’t worry, Mr. Drake. You’re the one paying me.”

Tim is back in his empty Manor before he can formulate a battle plan, but he tries.

He knows the family lawyer must already be organising the funeral, as is their custom. The Drake Mausoleum is probably dusted off and opened up for two more places this very night. There are invites being sent (by post or other means), and that the funeral is happening in a few days.

The Drakes don’t wait for the rot to set in, not unless they have no choice. The Mausoleum is a peculiar place his parents never really explained to him, but they prefer to store the bodies in there while they are… fresh.

So Tim needs a plan for the impending family about to descend upon him, who will be expected to be housed in the imposing edifice that is Drake Manor…

…That has been left collecting dust in empty despair for the last three years.

And it’s not like Tim can suddenly find and employ an army of trusted maids and butlers to… to clean up the dust and serve people. It’d be madness. Even if he technically now owns the place and should own his family’s modest fortune.

Technically.

He’ll see what he’ll get after the funeral is done. His parents might have remembered to write him into the will, but his family, his extended family might have a few words about that, though none of them happy.

Given how many aunts married cutthroat lawyers (at least two), Tim has no illusions that he might be driven out of his own home. A home that recognizes him as its owner by witch law — and that should be the strongest law in their family, but isn’t. All because he has crazy relatives who want the chunk of Drake fortune and knowledge his parents had.

So Tim… makes the call.

The Deep Insight Legal Consult law firm is never closed. Tim knows this by heart. His mother had pressed this again and again, and later on, so had his father. They never sleep. They know all.

If he needs their help, he just needs to call.

“Mr. Cradlefare shall be available shortly,” a preppy voice informs him, and Tim dutifully waits until the call is transferred.

“Timothy Drake,” a voice like smooth silk speaks to him through the receiver, though Tim would swear it sounds like it’s coming from somewhere nearby.

Tim shivers. He feels as if his immortal soul is being examined. “Yes.”

“Have you called us about your assets?”

He swallows. “Yes.”

“Ah, excellent. It is so very easy when people are so forthcoming,” the man purrs.

Tim shivers again. He wants to hang up and wipe his hands off, possibly take a shower, but he doesn’t do any of those things. “I wish to know whether my parents left…”

“You their assets? Hmm, yes, yes. Let me see.”

Tim hears as papers are rifled. He hears long nails scratch-scratching against wood, and he tries not to shiver. He doesn’t know why exactly, but his fight or flight instincts are all screaming at him to run.

But he doesn’t.

“Mmm, yes. The official reading of your parents’ will is to be held the day after tomorrow,” the man pauses, and Tim’s eyes slide over to the ornate clock that has never once stopped ticking. It is past midnight. “That means two days, yes,” the man agrees with him. “Since you’ve been a client of mine as long as you’ve been alive, I can tell you in confidence that you are set to inherit everything. The Manor, their… possessions.”

Tim sighs a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Quite right, quite right, but...”

Tim can barely clench his teeth around the oh no, but the man… still hears it.

“Indeed. You see, you’re still a minor, and as such… you require a... a guardian.”

So Tim is fucked, then. They’ll palace someone into that position who’ll squander his family’s fortune and perhaps force him to relinquish his apprenticeship.

He’s doomed.

“I wouldn’t go that far, my boy,” the man continues, and Tim shivers. He’s certain he’s never said a word. This time for sure.

The man cackles. “Oh don’t you worry, child. The Drake blood has always been protected from our kind. You do not have to fear me. Your parents had your survival in mind, which is why you do have a guardian named, in case… Well. In this case.”

Tim swallows again. He wipes his face and the back of his neck that’s slick with cold sweat. “Who is… Who is to be my guardian?”

“Your uncle Ebenezer.”

Tim’s eyebrows go up. He’s studied his family tree from crown to roots, back and forth. There’s no uncle Ebenezer anywhere. In fact, his parents don’t know a single Ebenezer. “But I…”

“Of course not, my sweet. He does not exist. But the rest of them do not know that, now do they? Your father’s lineage has a few… blank spots. And it is only for one more year we shall keep up this farce. Contingencies were made.. Steps were taken. We shall provide an uncle for you for the duration of the reading of the will, and should you require it, for a week after.”

Tim blows out a breath. “Thank you. That’s… That would be very much appreciated.”

Cradlefare chuckles, and Tim shivers in revulsion. “Not at all, child. This is what your parents paid me for. This is what you are continuing to pay me for, still. So long as we’re on retainer, you shall have our protection.”

Tim nods. He wishes he knew whether this is a threat or a solemn promise.

For now he’s just glad he has someone fighting in his corner.

“Quite right, my boy, quite right. So if this is all?”

Tim clears his throat. “Yes, yes, that’s all, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Cradlefare.”

The line goes dead.

Tim drops the receiver into the cradle, and shivers. The man was perfectly civil, and yet he feels like he needs a shower, perhaps several showers to feel clean again, if he ever could.

He doesn’t want to know what Cradlefare is, or was, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to… to contact him again. He’s perfectly happy to keep him on retainer so long as he can go without repeating this phone call.

Grabbing his bag, Tim lugs it up the wide, winding stairs, and takes it into his room. While it’s dusty like the rest of the Manor, he still feels somewhat comfortable in it. He sure wishes he were magical right now. Enchanting a few mops and feather dusters would come in handy.

Before going to bed, he cleans two rooms: his and a guest room for whichever teacher from Brentwood comes to chaperone him. By the time he's done, he's a dusty, sweaty mess, but at least the linens are clean, if a bit redolent of moth balls.

He takes a shower then, which he’s definitely earned, and suffers through brown sludge coming from complaining pipes until the water finally runs clear.

It looks like while his parents finally, probably the first time, didn’t forget about him, they certainly forgot about their own home.

Tim wonders idly if whatever enchantment protected the linen closet might be transferable to the water pipes as well. Once the funeral was over, of course. He shouldn’t think about making any plans until he knew, was absolutely certain, that he was the owner of his… his assets.

He goes to sleep in his childhood bed besieged by all sorts of horrible thoughts, and wakes up somewhat rested.

There’s someone at the door. 

Tim knows this before the bell is rung. He wonders if the feeling will vanish the moment his relatives evict his ass from his ancestral home, or if it’ll fade away softly. (Mr. Cradlefare told him not to be worried, but as… unsavoury as the lawyer’s presence felt, his relatives could be worse.)

He puts on his father’s old robe he snuck out of his bedroom, and goes down to answer the door.

It happens to be Mr. Trewin, his old algebra teacher. He has a small carry bag with him, and he looks as unremarkable as always. His dark suit is well-pressed, as is his shirt, and Tim wonders if he can perhaps take him to get a suit of his own for his parents’ funeral.

He’s been set to go in his school uniform, but perhaps, if they had time enough, he could actually buy himself formal clothes that would fit.

“Good morning, Mr. Trevin,” he greets the man, and opens the door wider to let him in.

His teacher takes about two steps towards the door before a couple practically springs up the steps to push past him and towards Tim.

Tim, in a surprisingly fast reaction (in contrast with the early morning) pushes the door almost shut, peering at the couple with a raised eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

“Mortimer Drake, and my wife, Natasha,” the man says, clearly unhappy with the door not being open to admit him. “Come now, boy, let us in. We’ve travelled a long way to get here, and we’re tired. I trust our rooms have been readied?”

Tim sighs. He knew this was coming.

“I’m terribly sorry, Uncle Mortimer, but the Manor hasn’t been used for years. I’m afraid it is not fit to house family as it hasn’t been cleaned yet, either. I’d like to kindly ask you to please consider staying at a hotel instead.”

“Oh nonsense, boy! Just have the maids clean a room out for us, we’re willing to share as a concession to a grieving family member. We can’t very well expect you to have everything taken care of, after all.”

“Unfortunately, we haven’t had maids or butlers for three years now. Mother and Father locked the Manor and I haven’t been in residence until today.”

The look he’s given frightens him, until Mr. Trevin shoulders his way between Tim and his apoplectic relatives.

“As the boy’s current legal guardian, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“What?!” Mortimer Drake draws himself up to his frankly notable height, and draws in a breath to let out a giant wave of anger. “How dare you tell me I cannot stay in my family’s home? How dare you deny me my right?”

Mr. Trevin draws himself up to his unremarkable height, straightens his thin shoulders, and draws his mouth into a polite smile. Tim doesn’t know why, but every hair on his body begins to stand on end.

“As I said before, I am currently the boy’s appointed guardian. Mr. Drake is part of the student body until his graduation, and thus he is the school’s ward. Should you test how far I’m willing to go to protect my pupil, please, I invite you to go ahead. I am more than happy to offer a demonstration.”

Mortimer Drake and his wife Natasha both take a step back. Mortimer’s face, that until just now was an ugly shade of red, turns white. “Have it your way, Disappointment. I’m not sure why we ever expected anything from you.” He turns to his wife, who’s shaking in her furs. “Come, love. Let’s find some decent accommodations.”

Tim watches as they descend the stairs and hurry away. His fingers go lax on the centuries old wood in sheer relief. He lets a no-nonsense Mr. Trevin enter the front door, and closes it.

“Thank you, Mr. Trevin,” he remembers to say.

“It’s all right, Mr. Drake. It is my duty as your appointed guardian that I take good care of you. Should anybody harm you on my watch, it’d bring shame upon the whole school.”

Tim never considered that. He never thought he was being… protected. He should have, with all the… the relatives after his fortune now, but he never did.

“I still very much appreciate it. And I’d like to apologise for what is still to come. Unfortunately there are several… unsavoury Drakes, and they’ll probably attempt to visit, too.”

Mr. Trevin smiles.

It makes the hair stand up on the back of Tim’s neck.

“That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Drake. I’m more than happy to… stretch my wings, so to speak. It’s been a little hard to be myself at school lately. And I have to thank you for not wearing an amulet, or we’d have run into some problems.”

Tim blinks, realising he did indeed forget his amulet on his bedside table, along with… all of his other protections. That’s some horribly bad judgement on his part, but apparently it paid off.

And then he instantly feels bad for… limiting Mr. Trevin’s life at school, whatever limitations Tim’s warding amulets supplied to the student body might cause…

“I’m so sorry,” he says, because it’s only decent to be polite to the man who’ll probably save his life multiple times before the end of the week. “I never thought—”

“Nonsense, Mr. Drake. It is a small concession, and I’d rather the students stay safe. Did you know we have had a steep decrease in unexplainable deaths happening at Brentwood since you… since you set up shop and started making these pocket wards and trinkets of yours?”

Tim shakes his head mutely.

“Well, we did. So trust me when I say that the whole school is indebted to you. Therefore, your safety is our main concern. You won't come to any harm, I can promise that.”

Tim is… He doesn’t know what to say. He never even thought what he did was saving lives. He was just… trying to find a way to help people while also honing his craft.

So he just clears his throat and waves an arm up the stairs.

“I… Should I show you the room you’ll be staying in? I’ve tried to clean it the best I could, but unfortunately this house hasn’t seen a single maid in three years.”

His algebra teacher chuckles. “It’s all right, Mr. Drake. A little dust never hurt me.”

Tim doesn’t know what to say, so he walks Mr. Trevin up to his room, and lets him settle in while he dresses.

There’s no food in the Manor, or at least nothing that would still be fit for human consumption. There’s also the question of Tim’s outerwear. So Tim hopes he can bribe his teacher with breakfast elsewhere so they can do some shopping.

But if not… there’s always takeout.

Unfortunately, Tim is barely decent when the doorbell rings again.

He snags his school uniform jacket off the back of the chair and walks down the stairs, closely followed by his teacher, who’s taking this guardianship seriously. Tim is secretly glad about it. He isn’t sure his family couldn’t or wouldn’t exploit the Manor against him, the magicless one.

The next group, a family with three kids, aren’t any nicer to Tim either. The mother goes as far as to spit in his face before she blanches and runs off, dragging her littlest as Mr. Trevin takes a step forward.

“Perhaps… Would you allow me to invite you for breakfast somewhere in the city?” Tim offers before they get any more visitors.

“I don’t suppose any of your relatives have a key to your home?” his teacher asks politely.

“Not that I know of. But theoretically, they shouldn’t be able to enter the Manor without my invitation. That’s how it was with my parents, but of course I’m... “

“Magically challenged?”

Tim nods with a slight smile. “Something like that, yes.”

“Well. Seeing as we need sustenance, and your parents were quite excellent with magic, I’d say we should trust that the magic will hold. I’ve been told the school covers my expenses, so we could definitely go out to have some decent breakfast, and stock up for the week.”

Tim blanches. “Oh no. I was offering to invite you, Mr. Trevin.”

“Nonsense,” his teacher chuckles. “The school is prestigious enough to afford at least this much.”

“But I wished to thank you for… for coming. And for saving me from—”

Mr. Trevin smiles. It stops Tim in his tracks. “It is my job. And I did it gladly, because you are a prized pupil of mine. There’s no need for gratitude. I’d have done this for any student of mine.”

Fine. Tim shifts gears, and nods. “How about a bribe then?”

Mr. Trevin blinks. “A bribe? Whatever for?”

“I haven’t got any… outside clothes. Nothing formal for a funeral, at least. I haven’t gone shopping for a suit in a long time, since I didn’t need one at school, and I…”

“Oh dear, yes. Yes, I see it now. Of course, I shall take you. What a horrible oversight! Consider it done.”

Tim clears his throat. “So about that breakfast…”

“The school is paying.” Mr. Trevin gives him a firm look. “It’s non-negotiable. We owe you a lot, Mr Drake. Let the school repay its debts.”

Tim swallows.

Then he nods.

“Good,” his teacher smiles. “Now be a good lad and grab that pendant of yours with the silver. While it might dampen my powers, you’ll be more protected in public.”

***

Tim has one of the best days of his life. Mr. Trevin takes him to breakfast in a rather quaint part of Gotham in the Bowery, and then they go shopping in the Diamond District. Apparently, Tim is considered too high in standing despite his lack of magic to shop from chain stores or department stores.

Good thing Mr. Trevin knows where the best and fastest made bespoke suits could be bought. 

And it’s a good thing Tim has earned enough during his apprenticeship, and through trinkets made for the student body, to afford them. Even if Mr. Trevin has access to the accounts that his parents set aside for him, Tim feels bad for even thinking of touching that money when he has his own.

He selects two suits, one for the funeral, and another in case he is approved for work at Wayne Industries. He lets his teacher help him with shirts, ties, and cufflinks. While he has his father’s, he’d rather have his own that he feels less bad about were he to lose them.

(But if he feels like it, he can always use the smithy to make more.)

By the time they get back from shopping for groceries and the suits, it’s almost nighttime. The front door looks undisturbed, and besides a kicked-over potted plant and a few cigarette butts, there is nothing out of the ordinary.

Tim is so very glad he could cry. (And he’s not used to such hyperboles.)

The letter arrives while Tim is cleaning the kitchen. The courier gives him a nod as she hands over the black-rimmed envelope, and then she’s off getting back on her bike and leaving, trailing black smoke behind her.

Tim doesn’t even jump when Mr. Trevin materialises from the shadows, where he undoubtedly watched him from, for safety’s sake. Instead of feeling creepy, it feels good, being watched over. Tim hasn’t had many father figures in his life, and he’s glad for it now, even if Mr. Trevin is clearly just a guardian, and is politely making the line in the sand known.

“The funeral is going to be held tomorrow,” he reads the invitation. “At noon. And Mr. Cradlefare has organised a wake after the… The reading of the will... Oh no.”

Tim can’t help but feel anxious. Even his protective charms and Mr. Trevin together wouldn't be able to save him from his family.

“Does it say where it’s going to be held?” his teacher asks politely.

“The… Oh. The Iceberg Lounge.”

Mr Trevin smiles. It’s a good smile, it makes Tim unconsciously loosen his tense muscles. “That’s a wise decision. It is neutral ground. You’ll be safe there, unless they wish to pay a steep price.”

Tim doesn’t remember enough of his lessons as a young boy to not ask questions. “How steep a price?”

Mr. Trevin grins as he replies, “Death, Mr. Drake. Death to the offender, and should their transgressions be too foul, death to their immediate family as well. Which, given that your immediate family is dead and about to be buried, doesn’t involve you. You shall be safe either way.”

Tim swallows. “But once I leave…”

“I’m certain Mr. Cradlefare has plans for your departure too. As do I. Please trust us, Mr. Drake. Not everybody thinks you are undeserving of your place in this world.”

That night Tim goes to sleep feeling safe, and if not loved, but at least appreciated. He’s not worthless. More people than just his friends and Mr. Fox think that.

People think he’s worth saving.  

The day of the funeral starts with more family arriving. Tim is still in his shirt, fiddling with his tie when the bell is rung. And rung again. And then some more.

He walks down the stairs in utter resignation. As he turns, he can see Mr. Trevin a few steps behind him, and it reassures him somewhat.

When he opens the door, he’s surprised to come face to face with a red-headed teen about the same age as him.

“Hey, you Tim?”

Tim blinks stupidly. “Yes? I mean, yes. I am.”

“Oh cool! So hey, I’m Roy, a distant cousin or something. Like my grandpa and your grandpa were half bros, I think? My mum, Dinah Lance is a relative of yours or some sort?”

Tim blinks again, brain scrambling to pull up the old family tree, when a beautiful blond woman dragging a sour-faced blond man catch up with the teen.

“Roy, for goodness's sake, I’ve told you a hundred times not to run off!” The woman hisses, and then she turns to Tim and smiles a gentle smile. “Tim, right? I’m sorry for dropping in on you like this, but we just… want to pass on our condolences before the whole family descends upon you.”

Tim blinks up at her, at her gently curling blond hair arranged tastefully into a loose bun under a black fascinator with tasteful lace, and nods.

“Oh. Oh, please don’t think we want to… Oh no, I’m so sorry! It’s just that… I know how the family can be, and…” her lips purse. “I just wanted to see you and tell you how sorry I am that Jack has passed away. And Janet, of course! Please don’t think I don’t feel sorry for Janet, she was a lovely woman. I just… I knew Jack when he was young, you see, so I knew him better. But I’m sad, so very sad you lost your parents, and I wanted to tell you, if you needed anything, just tell us.”

“What, really?” It slips out of his mouth, and he instantly wishes he could suck it back.

But she, Dinah, just chuckles. “Yes, really. I guess you haven’t received many well-wishes from the others?”

Tim shrugs. He sees Roy laughing and rolling his eyes in an entirely too commiserating gesture not to recognize a kindred spirit. “Can’t say that I have.”

“I guess you wouldn’t. But our door is always open, if you… if you need help. Any time.”

Tim looks at her, at her bearded husband who looks like a storybook character, and their son Roy, and he feels strangely warm. They look so different from the usual Drakes with their dark hair, white skin and pinched faces. They look warm and inviting.

“I…” Tim can’t speak. The words are not coming. He has to force himself to clear his throat and squeeze out a wobbly “thank you.”

“Oh, for the love of! Come here!” she mutters, and the next second Tim is drawn into the warmest hug he’s ever gotten from family, and he melts into it.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he’s pulling back, and then he wipes his face, horrified.

“We live in Star City,” she says, unphased. “My husband Ollie, and my son Roy. But if you ever need family, call us. We’re not that far away. For now, we’re staying at the Powers Hotel, over in the Upper East Side.”

Tim nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice yet.

She smiles at him. “All right, I’ll let you… get ready. Do you have transportation to the cemetery?”

Tim looks over at Mr. Trevin who’s standing a respective distance away, who nods. “The school has generously offered one of its cars for us,” the teacher explains. “Please feel free to go on ahead, we’ll be there shortly.”

She nods, and looks back at Tim. “If you need help, or if they’re bothering you, I’ll be at the wake. Don’t hesitate to come to me if…” her delicate, gloved hand waves around, and Tim thinks he understands.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she chuckles. Her laughter is carefree. and soft. It catches Tim off-guard with how warm it makes him. How desperate for it to be real. “It’s what family does.” And then she threads her arms through her husband’s and son’s, and tugs them away. “Feel free to look me up after the funeral!”

Tim watches them as they walk down the steps and climb into a nice car to drive away. “They looked friendly,” he tells his algebra teacher.

“Yes, I’d say they did.”

“I’ve never met them before. My parents never introduced me to any of-” he stops, horrified. Mr. Trevin neither needs, nor wants to know his life’s story. Everybody has their own issues, he doesn’t need to share his.

“Well, it is quite fortuitous that you’ve met them now,” his teacher replies diplomatically, and Tim nods.

He’d like to say something, anything, but he can’t find the words to express all the things he’s feeling. He’s not even sure he should.

“And now perhaps we should finish getting ready,” his teacher offers, and Tim gladly takes the chance to get out of the spotlight.

They arrive at the cemetery via the school’s automobile. Tim, taking his teacher’s advice, waits until the chauffeur opens his door before disembarking. He rights his clothes, waits for his guardian to join him, and only then does he start walking towards the mourners already gathered.

It’s still relatively early enough that only a handful of people are there, many of whom are from the media. Tim winces as a bright flash momentarily blinds him. When he blinks it out of his eyes, he sees that everybody’s staring at him.

His steps falter.

“Chin up, Mr. Drake,” Mr. Trevin says under his breath. “Don’t let them see you flounder. And don’t talk to the newspapers. I’ll handle them . ”

Tim nods, and squares his shoulders. He can do this. He’s not alone. But even if he were, he could do this.

He’s not really alone. He has friends who think he matters. He has a right to exist, and he’s here to bury his parents.

He doesn’t care about anybody else.

Pushing past people with his lips pressed together,he reaches the white lawn chairs set out for the mourning family who have been deemed worthy enough to get a spot. He sits down while his teacher stares down the news reporters, not giving an inch.

It’s a good feeling, being protected. Shielded. Taken care of.

Tim didn’t think the school would bother, honestly. Even if what Mr. Trevin told him was true, this was the school board (or just his algebra teacher) going above and beyond just for him. They’ve already done more than his parents ever did.

Isn’t that strange?

He leans back in his chair and looks around to take in the scene and tries to ignore the reporters and photographers still trying to catch his attention. The grass is a lovely green, eerily so for a cemetery in Gotham. He suspects fey magic, but he can’t be sure. There aren’t enough dark-haired, pale-faced people sitting in the chairs for him to feel uncomfortable, though they do sit as far away from Tim as possible.

He tries not to react to their vague distaste and disinterest at his person. They’ll have ample time to humiliate him at the wake afterwards. He wishes he didn’t have to go, but it’s for his parents, and it is the custom. And who knows, maybe Dinah isn’t the only nice relative he has. After all, he didn’t know she even existed until today.

His parents could have lied. He might very well have more nice relatives too. He’s been locked up in Drake Manor, and later on in Brentwood, so how would he even know?

He squishes the tentative smile before it even has a chance to form. A photo of Timothy Drake smiling at his parents’ funeral would be disastrous. He schools his face to show a politely sad expression and nothing more.

By the time Mr. Trevin joins him and sits on his right as his guardian, Tim has things under control.

“The ceremony is about to start,” he whispers to Tim as Dinah walks up to him to convey her condolences.

He stands up and accepts her hand with a polite nod. “Thank you for coming such a long way,” he tells her.

She smiles at him. Her brightness, her warmth shines through in spite of her black formal clothes. “Always. I had to come and meet you, before the others sink their claws in you.”

Tim smiles ruefully at that. “I don’t think many are coming. Perhaps it was me turning Uncle Mortimer away that offended them, but the Manor isn’t currently… livable.”

Dinah arches a delicate eyebrow. “Oh? Mortimer was by? Well, I haven’t seen him arriving here yet, and I doubt he’d miss the funeral if he came all this way for it. I even heard the Wayne heir is here somewhere!”

“Perhaps he left?” Tim offers. Guilt eats at him, pushing the thought of the Wayne heir right out of his mind. Perhaps he could have looked into employing a few maids, and helped clean out some rooms? Surely he could have suffered his relatives for one night?

Dinah chuckles. “I rather doubt it. He’s not easy to get rid of. Trust me.”

Tim nods, because he thinks that’s the polite thing to do. But he has his doubts. Huge doubts. That, and he’s suddenly feeling odd. Odd enough to ask her, “But where are they then?”

She shrugs. “Perhaps they’re having brunch, or plan on being fashionably late to spite you? I wouldn’t worry about them. You have a guardian with you, and the press is here. I don’t think they’d dare to cause a truly big scene…”

Tim nods along even as she hurries away with an apologetic smile as the funeral ceremony begins.

He sits down, not watching as Dinah rejoins her family a few rows back. Tim wouldn’t have minded if she sat closer, but she probably felt it wasn’t polite. They weren’t as close, after all, though he has never met anybody from the Drake clan. He only ever saw pictures if his parents deemed a relative important enough… or dangerous enough.

The odd feeling of oddness grows, until it’s a ball of cold in his stomach, until it yawns open and he curls up, sobbing in... discomfort. It’s not pain exactly, just a horrible, foul feeling. Like he’s unclean.

He can’t hear as the high priestess begins her speech. Suddenly his head is full of buzzing, and his hands clench into his hair until Mr. Trevin puts a gentle hand on his head.

“Mr. Drake? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Tim shakes his head. There’s a pressure in him he cannot express until it snaps like a rubber band, and it’s gone. It’s gone, and leaves him feeling… dirty. Foul. Invaded.

“I… don’t know,” he whispers, and winces as cameras flash at him the moment he raises his head. “It felt… odd. Like I was… invaded .”

He cranes his head around to check whether his family are around, but can only spot Dinah, her family, and a handful of others. Most of the chairs are empty. He thinks he knows why.

“I think they got into the Manor,” he whispers, and schools his expression into sadness as the cameras keep flashing.

“Is there anything in Drake Manor that needs to be protected?” his teacher asks. “I can contact Mr. Cradlefare or the police, if you wish.”

He’s already rising when Tim shakes his head and grabs his teacher’s suit. He’s very careful not to touch the man’s body. He’s not been invited to, nor allowed to do so, and he has… he still has no idea exactly what he is. He’d be crazy to possibly hurt someone who’s gone above and beyond to treat him like a normal human being.

“It’s been taken care of, no need to trouble yourself. Please… please stay.”

Mr. Trevin sinks back down, and the chair creaks. “As you wish.”

Tim nods.

He’d rather have someone with him he can trust and rely on. Someone who can whisk him away at a moment’s notice and guard him. Whatever his family might find in the Manor is a pittance compared to the priceless items Tim has stowed away in his room at Brentwood. And he has no illusions that his relatives, who had the gall to break into his home, would try to corner him during the wake infuriated by the fact they found nothing.

He sits up straighter and tunes back into the ceremony, ignoring the wrong, dirty, despoiled feeling until it finally goes away. He listens, really listens, as his parents are given a proper farewell—as he should.

While his parents weren’t as loving as they could have been, they still treated him well. Tim was never beaten. He never starved. (For food. Attention and love are different matters.)

He was… sometimes even loved. Or perhaps tolerated. But he still had it better than so many other children.

His parents were desperately trying to make him… better. More powerful. Or perhaps just more befitting to the Drake name?

Either way, they still cared about him in their own way. An hour of his life or less is a pittance to ask. He can listen and pretend to be touched.

So he does just that. He readies his embroidered kerchief and looks moved. He listens to the high priestess speak. She’s still droning on about his parents’ achievements and wondrous feats, and Tim dabs at the corners of his eyes. They’re not misting over yet, but he can fake it. He’s more than willing to fake it.

Every time he wipes his eyes, the cameras go off. Every time his lips tremble, the reporters crowding around bend over their notebooks. It’s hard not to overdo it and goad them into a gaudy article, but Tim is careful. He only gives them enough ammunition to not be written as the uncaring, useless son.

Let them say he’s shaken and still in shock. Let them say he’s withdrawn and sheltered. Let them say he’s so very young, and yet so dignified in his grief.

It’s what his parents would have wanted.

So he plays his part well.

As the high priestess raises her hands above to ask the old gods for their blessings,  a commotion arises from behind Tim. He hears many feet tread on the grass, as chairs are getting pushed and tugged, as people mutter and cuss.

He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t try to cause a scene, though he lets his annoyance show. Let the papers write how the Drakes ruined the funeral. Let them say how politely Tim took it.

It’s all just a play to them. What better way to send his parents off to their final journey than to show them he can take care of himself? Let them see that Tim, while magicless, is still capable.

He yelps in alarm as the very next second his chair is yanked hard, and he flies back. His head tilts up, his hands wave, and his handkerchief goes flying as a face looks down upon him in a rictus of rage.

“You little fucking thief!” his Uncle Mortimer snarls, and shakes the back of Tim’s unbalanced chair, so Tim flops this way and that. “You robbed us!”

The cameras keep flashing as pandemonium breaks out.

Tim can hear Mr. Trevin’s roar as he’s jerked back, while his family, who arrived after the apparently failed sacking of his home, swell like a tide against them.

“Thief!” Shrieks someone Tim has never met. (And never seen a photo of, either.) “You stole her grimoires from us!”

Tim stands, horrified and shocked in front of an army of angry Drakes, who have no sense to… not do this out here in the open… In front of many prying eyes.

“You stole it all, you worthless piece of shit,” someone else spits in his face, and Tim jerks away.

“I have stolen nothing!” Tim yells back finally, having found his voice. It rings clear and loud. Perhaps a little magically loud, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in its mouth. “But it’s become obvious that you’ve broken into my parents’ home to sack it! You didn’t even come to their funeral! No, you used the funeral as a ruse to steal my parents’ valuables!” He tenses, visibly agitated. (Or so he hopes, because he needs it for his next line.) “What sort of family is this?!”

“Oh come off it, boy!” an old woman shouts. “You are a fluke. We all know you can’t do magic! You are a useless piece of good genes gone bust! What use are the grimoires to you, when you can’t even do the incantations?”

Tim shrinks back. It’s mostly theatrics, because he knew this was coming, of course he did, and he planned for it… But not exactly this. And it still hurts, when hurled into his face in front of so many people. So many angry people.

“I might not be able to use magic, but I know every incantation, every spell, and every recipe by heart. And the grimoires are going to my own descendants, unless my mother wished otherwise. We all will learn who inherits what at the wake, so unless you wish to rob my dead parents, who aren’t even in the family crypt yet, what reason did you have to break into my parents’ home?”

“Oh hear how he protests?” Uncle Mortimer joins the fray. “He wouldn’t let me inside, because he was hiding the fact that he’s already stolen everything of value! The little dud has sold our family fortune for his own gain!”

“I haven’t stolen anything!” Tim cries, incensed. “The Manor has been locked up, unused for years! You can’t expect me to clean it up in a single night right after I’ve heard of my parents’ demise. There were no maids! No butler! Did you expect me to mop up the floors, clean the windows, wash your sheets, go buy food and cook for you, carry your bags for you?! In case it has escaped your notice, uncle, I’m a minor, and I don’t even have an allowance! This is the first time I’ve been home since I’ve been admitted to school! I can’t even go anywhere without an assigned guardian!”

The cameras keep flashing. His relatives keep growling.

Wait. No. That’s something else.

Someone else.

Tim feels a big, really big hand on his shoulder. It covers everything from his shoulder blade to his bicep. It pulls him back and grounds him. It also scares him a little.

He can feel little pinpricks as sharp claws dig into his skin right through his clothes.

He doesn’t exactly shake as a puff of warm breath blows past him. Not breath, it feels almost like… steam. It has body and velocity. And there’s the soft subvocal… growl.

“The boy has lost his parents, and you, his only family, go to ransack his home? Have you no shame?” Mr. Trevin asks. His nondescript voice carries. Tim doesn’t dare to turn his head and take a look.

He can only watch his relatives, who one by one pale and sit down, looking like they each sucked on a lemon.

“Come, Mr. Drake,” his teacher tugs on his shoulder, and Tim goes. He lets himself be guided back to his chair. He rights it, and sits down. He studiously doesn’t dare to look his teacher in the eyes.

When everybody is sitting down and there are only quiet, angry murmurs coming from the back, the high priestess tries again.

The ceremony concludes, and the pallbearers lift up Tim’s parents’ coffins to carry them down into the belly of the crypt. Tim feels a pang of loss at seeing his parents for the last time. This is the very last time he’ll feel their closeness, and for a moment he thinks about just taking one last look at their faces, or just running over and touching their coffins to… to feel them.

His family gets there before him.

“Quick, the coffins!” his uncle yells like a battle cry, and his family swarm the tentatively stumbling pallbearers. Unbalanced, the coffins fall to the ground.

The lush grass cushions them, but they still crack open as they roll, and Tim can see the moment a small, greyish hand flops out.

“Mother!”

His cry is lost as the journalists gasp, his relatives scramble to get a look inside, and the funeral director tries to get things back in order. It’s pandemonium. It’s a crazy tableau of utter madness.

And all the while the cameras keep flashing, commemorating every second of Tim’s most traumatising day.

Tim doesn’t know what to do. One second he wants to go and hide his mother from all the prying eyes, the next he wants to sink back and away from them. 

His saviour is Dinah, who pushes her way through the mob of lunatics to tug him close and hugs him. She turns him away from the sight of the coffin and all the flashes going off, shielding him from everybody’s view.

“Don’t look. It’s going to be fine. I’ve already called security.”

By the time everything is cleared up and Tim’s parents are carried down into the family crypt, the newspapers have enough ammunition to last for weeks. Tim is certain his horrified face will be on every front cover, if not his red, tearful eyes. Either way, Tim's humiliation will be front page news.

But he can't even think about all that. Tim is shaken enough that he just goes wherever his teacher guides him. They lose Dinah when she rejoins her family. Mr. Trevin, on the other hand, never leaves his side. His guiding hand is on Tim’s shoulder until they get into the school’s automobile, and Tim…

He only realises he’s shaking when a gentle hand is laid over his.

“I’m truly sorry you had to witness that, Mr. Drake.”

Tim shakes his head. He wants to say it was nothing, that he should have expected it, but can’t speak. Opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, he shakes his head again.

“It’s fine, Mr. Dr—Timothy. I’ll see if we can find something warm for you to drink before… Before you have to deal with more .”

The car stops an indeterminable time later, and Tim is gently guided out and to a small hole-in-the-wall café. It’s dark and homey with mismatched chairs. The furniture is old and well-used, though Tim can’t even grasp that.

He just sits down into the big armchair he’s directed to, and jumps when something warm is pushed into his hands.

“Drink that. Slowly.”

Tim tries it. It tastes like cocoa, and something else, something smoky and… “I’m still a minor,” he whispers.

“And I’m currently your appointed guardian. It’s not enough to cause issues, just a little help for the nerves. Drink up, Timothy.”

Tim drinks. The warmth and rich taste of chocolate soothes his nerves, along with the tiny drop of alcohol in it. He knows that his teacher is right, it doesn’t taste much out of the ordinary. Having been brought up in an all-boys school, he’s tasted alcohol before. He knows this is nothing. His teacher just wants to help, and that is what really makes him feel better. That he has people in his corner now.

He finishes his drink and lets his teacher usher him back to the car.

“We’ll go to the wake and the reading of your parents’ will. Can you handle that?”

Tim nods.

“There’s no shame if you can’t, after all that has happened. Nobody could begrudge you some peace, some distance from your relatives, if you wished—”

“No.” Tim shakes his head for emphasis. “I must. Father would never let me live it down. I have to… I have to be present. I am their only child. I need to be there.”

“All right. As you wish.”

Tim regrets his decision the moment they enter the room. As every face turns towards him, as eyes cold as ice pin him in place, he thinks he could have chosen the easy way out just this once. 

He could have turned tail and run, and let the adults handle it. Any other option would have been preferable than allowing his family to pick him apart — because they’ll do it. With eyes cold as ice and face as white as ghouls, they’ll bring out the hate and the barbs until Tim’s soul has been rended to pieces.

But it’s too late now.

He’s made his decision, and now he can only stick with it.

Bolstered with the knowledge that Mr. Trevin is by his side, he begins walking towards the tables laden with sandwiches and drinks. Because the thing is, he’s hungry. He’s hungry and scared, and he needs his energy to keep his brain going. He needs to be ready for… anything.

Tim only realises his blunder once he’s already taken his first bite and is chewing it. He whips around to look at his teacher, who just shakes his head.

“The wake has been paid for out of the estate.” At Tim’s surprise, he goes on. “Mr. Cradlefare was the one who contacted the school about your parents’ untimely departure. By the time the board decided to give you leave, all had been arranged. He’s the trustee and executor for your parents’ estate. The food has been paid for by your parents. It is not a... gift —it gives nobody power over you. And to poison refreshments, or do anything nefarious on neutral ground is an offence too great to even contemplate, ” he adds sternly.

Tim swallows. While he’s so very, very grateful that he hasn’t gotten beholden to the fae, or namely, Mr. Cradlefare (even if he has aged out of the man’s preferred age group), he’d like to revisit that thought about poisoning the refreshments. He thinks there are a few of his family who wouldn’t mind an attempt at that, though only after they figured out where he’d hidden his parents’ priceless heirlooms.

He studiously avoids reaching up to touch and check whether his protection charm, with the silver and many other materials besides, is still hanging around his neck. If he concentrates, he can feel it pressing into his skin right under his collarbone. The weight is both soothing and bolstering, even if he still feels scared.

Why did he think he could do this?

“Come, Mr. Drake,” his teacher tugs his arm. Tim has never, ever been so grateful to have someone with him. “This way.”

He is guided to the couch at one end of the room. While he’s led, he takes a plate and grabs a few little sandwiches, cakes, and whatever he can reach on his way, with a glass of… He doesn’t know what it is, but looks vaguely fruity. Probably some sort of juice, even with the flower petals floating in it.

Tim thinks his mother would have loved it. It’s very… pretty. And customers would buy anything that was pretty, smelled nice, and even worked a little. (He knows the secrets of her trade, even if he can’t work magic.)

He sits down, and is surprised when his teacher stays standing on his left. Alert, and possibly a little bit threatening. Tim has spent years staring at the man across his desk and never felt a twinge of alarm. Not even a single hit that he was the slightest bit dangerous. And now he can’t stop feeling predator even when he isn’t actively looking to his left.

It’s uncanny.

It’s also very, very convenient. He thinks the school board, however stuffed with unbending old geezers it is, has just saved his life. And has been saving it since their decision to send Mr. Trevin to accompany him.

He sees a few people attempting to approach him, who all pale the moment his algebra teacher gives them a mild look. Or at least Tim thinks it’s mild. He can only see his teacher from the side, but he looks unthreatening. Just the tiniest bit stern.

Raising his plate, Tim offers it to his teacher. While it might not be polite, and he should definitely have grabbed another plate, Mr. Trevin just inclines his head and picks a sandwich off to eat it while gazing towards the hesitantly milling people.

Tim isn’t approached again until the bell is rung.

A lovely pale woman walks into the room and smiles at them politely. “If you could please follow me for the reading of the will?”

Tim swallows. “So soon? Shouldn’t there be…” he waves his hands around trying to… Not that he really knows how these things are supposed to happen.

“I suppose Mr. Cradlefare saw there was no happy family reunion.”

Tim sighs. “At least they didn’t try to shout again.”

Mr Trevin smiles. With many teeth. “I haven’t seen your uncle here since the authorities took him. Nor his louder relatives.”

That makes Tim feel better, as well as worse.

“Won’t he… Won’t he be angry that he missed the reading of the will?”

His teacher grins. “Oh, he’s more than welcome to ring Mr. Cradlefare up and get a private reading.”

Tim shivers. There are a few things more unpleasant than the thought of spending time with the owner of that voice. He can imagine what his uncle’s response would be.

Or can he? What if his uncle has no qualms about it? Would his parents’ lawyer, who’s also Tim’s lawyer, be strong enough to protect him?

He really hopes the answer is yes.

Tim lets his teacher lead him into a tastefully decorated room where his relatives have already taken the best chairs. He doesn’t mind andsits down in the back with Mr. Trevin, and waits until the doors are closed… and locked.

He blinks.

Is that traditional? Granted this is his very first wake, but. Tim would feel less uncomfortable if he weren’t locked in with so many of his relatives, who’d have no qualms about murdering him and hiding his body, were they allowed to.

“If I could have your attention?”

Tim swallows. He’d know that voice anywhere.

The man is tall and imposing, though he looks… old. Not old like humans. His skin looks almost paper thin, stretched over high cheekbones, his white hair combed back and tumbling down over his shoulder and further down in silken waves. He looks ethereal. He looks luminescent, and for a moment Tim wants to go over and…

The hand landing on his arm grounds him. Those thoughts scatter like mist on a sunny morning, and he sinks back down into his chair. What was he thinking, wanting to go over and… Right when his parents’ will was to be read?

Tim wants to sigh, but he doesn’t dare to make a sound. Instead, he focuses on Mr. Cradlefare’s hands as they roll out several papers and lay them down on the desk. He has long, pearlescent nails that seem to reflect the sunlight in funny patterns, and Tim looks away and down before his mind starts wandering again.

He looks around the room, but he doesn’t see anybody else having fallen under the man’s spell quite like he has. They are just watching quietly, obediently, like they should. Tim looks back, focuses on the table instead, and tries to listen.

As Mr. Cradlefare begins to read the will, he loses himself again. It’s not a conscious thing, he’ll later come to realise, but he can’t do a thing against it. As the man drones on, and Tim tries to concentrate, all he can do is listen, with his teacher hanging onto his arm.

The money is his, he thinks he hears. And everything his parents amassed. Creepy statues, dug-up magic objects, spells and grimoires. All his. As is Drake Manor. He hears it, but he can’t even blink. He’s mesmerised by the lawyer’s voice, as are his relatives.

He sees one pale, long-nailed hand gesticulating, and suddenly, for no apparent reason, he feels repulsed. The pendant against his skin is hot, so hot he feels himself burning, but he… he can’t move.

Cold iron, he thinks. Cold iron and something else. Salt. And rowan. Blue and red ribbons, too. They’d all be useful against the daoine sidhe. Or the aos sidhe.

And he should have laid a piece of iron in the doorway, so they could all leave.

But the door is locked now.

“It is neutral ground,” Mr. Trevin whispers, and Tim realises he’s shaking. He feels the sharp pain of his nails biting into his palms.

He unclenches his fists and nods.

The spell momentarily broken, he looks around the room. His family are taking things entirely too well. He could perhaps say there’s some magic involved.

Tim shivers and wonders how long it’ll last.

And then his eyes are caught by the gesticulating hands again, and no matter how much he resists, he’s lost.

He comes to as Mr. Trevin walks him out. His family has already retreated, and Tim sighs a huge sigh of relief as he steps over the threshold of the room, into the hallway.

“If there’s any more trouble with your relatives, feel free to give us a call,” Mr. Cradlefare tells Tim, and he jerks.

They were talking, his semi-gibbering mind reports. They were talking about his inheritance and assets. And a safe he’s free to stow his more important items like “family albums”. 

Tim wants to laugh, but he can’t.He’s been offered by a sidhe to store his family’s priceless items in an underground vault.

He nods along, because what can he do? 

“Thank you,” his mouth says without any input from his gibbering brain. “It was a very nice ceremony.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” the man agrees, and holds his hands in a way that while looking innocuous, will give Tim nightmares. “I was so disappointed when your uncle had to ruin it. Securing the high priestess for a ceremony on such a short notice was no easy feat, and yet…” he sighs.

Tim nods along. “I still appreciate it. I wish my parents…” He stops. He doesn’t know how to finish it.

Luckily, Mr. Cradlefare reads into it whatever he wishes, because he smiles. With teeth. Tim shivers, trying to mask his revulsion.

“Of course. I’m terribly sorry we had to meet under such terrible circumstances, dear child. But I hope it won’t break that fiery spirit of yours.”

Tim swallows. “I… thank you?”

“Quite right, my dear.” He nods along, as if they’ve finished a discussion Tim hasn’t really grasped yet, and then turns to Mr. Trevin. “I believe you’re the boy’s current guardian?”

“I am.”

Trevor Trevin, with his unremarkable height and unremarkable stature looks suddenly… taller. And wider. As if Tim could hide behind him and survive this encounter.

They look at each other for a while, before Mr. Cradlefare nods in apparent satisfaction.

“I shall courier the school the necessary paperwork, and will open an account for Mr. Drake for monthly allowances, should he need it. I believe his tuition has been paid upfront?”

Mr. Trevin nods.

“Very well. This concludes our meeting then, unless…” he peers at Tim, and for a second again Tim is sucked in again, though to a lesser extent this time. “Is there anything I may help you with, Mr. Drake?”

Tim starts shaking his head, and then stops. “Is there any possibility that my family… my relatives may start a case against me?”

Mr. Cradlefare smiles. With teeth. 

Tim is suddenly reminded that the aos sidhe have two courts, and while his family’s lawyer so far has exhibited characteristics of the gentler, friendlier seelie court… There's no telling — or not with what Tim knows off the top of his head —  him whether he might be of the more malicious unseelie court.

“In my long line of work,” he tells Tim with a smile that feels like the sharp edge of a knife, “there have been countless cases against my firm. None have stuck so far. I welcome them to try, but there is nothing, nothing at all to attack here, Mr. Drake. You are their single precious child. At no point in life have they disowned you or shown they do not care for you. You’ve always enjoyed their love and support. There is no way to attack their will. But...”

Tim’s heart seizes. He’s heard many times that if there is a but in a sentence, nothing before it counts.

“But. Should you feel anxious, or hesitant to trust that you are safe, I can give you the address of impartial and trustworthy places where one might store their valuables with absolute discretion. Should you decide to employ those services, I myself will not be informed, and then I would have nothing to report.”

Tim nods. “That would be most kind, Mr. Cradlefare. Thank you.”

They leave through the backdoor, ignoring the banquet hall entirely. Tim clenches his hand around the short list the lawyer gave him, and tries to ignore the pang in his chest when he thinks about Dinah.

He’ll find her later, he promises himself. He’ll meet with her again, and he’ll see if she’s honest. Perhaps… Perhaps he could have some family, after all.

But later. Only after his heirlooms are safe. 

After he is safe.

***

Tim is surprised to find Drake Manor locked up. It feels like nothing has been touched, like there wasn’t a break-in, but he knows there was. He finds nothing out of place until he visits his parents’ rooms.

All it takes is one single look and he has to back away, because he can’t deal with having his parents’ spaces desecrated like that.

But he promises himself that he’ll put everything back the way he found it. Soon.

Mr. Trevin is a quiet, welcome presence in the Manor. He’s not bothering Tim at all, only asking a few questions and offering his support, whenever Tim shall need it, before he retires to his own room.

Tim, left alone with his thoughts—his paranoid thoughts—begins to plan.

By the time he feels his lids sliding shut, he has something worked out.

The next day, he vets the places on Mr. Cradlefare’s short list, and selects the most promising candidate. He gets a whole vault to himself, and asks his teacher if he would be willing to accompany him to the school and back to drop off some personal items.

Mr. Trevin agrees.

Tim doesn’t expect his teacher to do the heavy lifting, since he has muscles to spare, but his teacher plucks the heavy travel bag from his hands and helps carry it right till the threshold. Tim doesn’t question it. He knows there are customs and traditions in place to protect him, and he’s more than happy not to share anything that can put his teacher, who’s been nothing but kind towards him, in harm's way. (Because Tim knows he must have some sort of protection on him, or his family would have attacked him now in some way or form, but he isn’t sure it extends to his acquaintances.)

He pays for the vault out of his pocket—he’s amassed quite enough through working for the Waynes to not need the money from his new account) for ten years. He isn’t sure how long he’ll need to store his valuables in secret, but it never hurts to have some extra time to figure it out.

Tim even inquires about how long he is allowed to extend its rent and is told, so long as he’s paying for it, and doesn’t have anything illegal (he had to sign a statement that he isn’t, but he has a hunch they’d magically know), he can rent until the end of times.

Nodding,  he’s then told to follow a smaller humanoid creature, once all of the paperwork is done, and the money has been counted. He grabs his bag and lugs it along match-lit corridors while they walk deeper into the massive complex in the bowels of Gotham.

“We take a lot of care to monitor the humidity in the air,” the man tells Tim, as if reading his mind. “We take every precaution that your items should not come to harm here. The base temperature shouldn’t waver more than a few degrees during Summer and Winter. And there hasn’t been a successful break-in in centuries. And even then…” He waves, and looks back at Tim with a dark grin. “They didn’t get away with much. Or for long. These walls are protected. Anybody with ill intentions cannot last long in here.”

Tim nods obediently, and the man turns back, satisfied.

He’s already been sold, but it’s good to know his parents’ heirlooms will be protected. And so long as he can pay their fee, they’ll stay that way. He wonders if he’ll ever feel safe pulling his mother’s grimoires out of the vault again.

The answer is ultimately that he’ll see how life will treat him from now on.

He locks up Drake Manor once he’s taken care of all of his business. His allotted time isn’t up yet, but he can’t stay in his old family home aimlessly. Mr. Trevin doesn’t mind either way, and after making absolutely sure this is what Tim wants, he’s driven back to Brentwood.

Ives is there, and so is Bernard, mobbing him the moment Mr. Trevin and the teacher on duty have made sure Tim hasn’t come to harm or fallen to pieces. 

Tim can barely let a single squeak out before they tackle him to the bed, giving him the warmest, clingiest hugs of his very life.

“Good gods, Tim,” Ives groans into the pillow next to Tim’s head. “Your family is super shitty. Did they really try to beat you up at your parents’ funeral? Did they… Did they actually root around in your mom’s coffin?”

Tim sighs. “They really went and published it, huh?”

“There was an interview with your Uncle Mortimer, too,” says Bernard, who’s been silent thus far. “He said you stole the family heirlooms?”

Tim groans. “I didn’t. I just took my mom’s books and my dad’s stuff and hid it, so they couldn’t steal them from my home that they broke into while my parents were getting buried! But I guess that wasn’t catchy enough, or scandal-y enough, for the newspapers.”

“Nah, it was,” Ives reassures him, and shifts. “Your cousin? Aunt? Dinah has been telling all the newspapers that and more. Dude, it’s been a media shitstorm. Every day something new, or someone new speaks up. I don’t think I’ve seen anything else but you and your family’s scandal in the newspapers for days!”

Tim closes his eyes. “Shit.”

The scandal he’s horrified about, but he’s mortified he forgot about Dinah. Granted, he was very delicate, and had more things to worry about, but he still forgot he could actually talk to her. Or that he should.

How he just up and forgot about her, he cannot say. He had a lot on his plate. That, and… Cradlefare. The meeting with that lawyer really scrambled his brain. He’s been in flight mode ever since.

He goes down to ask his teacher if he could please use the phone to call up a relative who might or might not be still in Gotham, and asks for some time off. He should be allowed, since it’s not his parents setting the rules anymore. Tim has autonomy now. Not much, but some, sotechnically he should have more freedom. He should be able to leave the school grounds in the afternoons if he so wished. (Though he didn’t want to now, not when he could see journalists poking their heads out of bushes whenever he looked out a window.)

The first wrench is thrown into his plans when the hotel tells him his relatives checked out, but they did leave a letter for him. He asks for it to be mailed to the school, and tries not to pout overly much. The staff member stressed Dinah apologised for her abrupt departure, but that doesn’t make him feel any better about it.

Nor does the summon to the school board the next day.

There, in front of the row of stuffy old men, Tim is told in gentle, but firm tones that his apprenticeship has been ended by the Waynes, with this notice. He’s allowed to take his tools and non-affiliated projects home or to the school, should he wish, but only while supervised.

There’s also no job waiting for him later, once he graduates.

“The Wayne heir went to your parents’ funeral to pay his respects, and… saw the spectacle. He’s also seen the scandal unfold in the newspapers, and feels it wouldn’t be… prudent to be associated with such an individual in the midst of such a media frenzy at current. I’m very sorry, my boy,” Mr. Bond tells him.

Tim can see they’re all disappointed but understanding. They are all on his side. Anybody with a brain would be on Tim’s side.

And yet…

He shakes his head. He’s stunned. Bamboozled. Poleaxed. Completely numb.

He’s just seen the life he’s planned for himself go up in flames.

Even though he has retained his inheritance… he has nothing.

“Perhaps you could still take those few days off?” the headmaster offers. “Just so you can… make sure you have your tools and projects?”

Tim nods woodenly.

His only, semi-coherent thought is that at least he has a big enough vault to hold these items too.

***

Mr. Fox is there when Tim goes into his workshop to collect his things. In fact, it is him who’s to supervise Tim, which is, all things considered, a relief.

“Tim. I’m so very sorry this has come to pass,” he says with a grave face. “I’ve tried to explain this to the boy, but he wouldn’t budge.”

Tim shrugs. “I understand. Thank you for… Everything.”

He wants to cry, because this workshop, Mr. Fox’s gentle, but firm hand guiding him, and his vast knowledge have been his respite from… from life, but now, once again, he has nothing.

Everything he held dear has been taken from him.

All he has now are family heirlooms he can’t make use of.

“Tim.”

A heavy hand lands on Tim’s shoulder, and he winces as he’s jerked out of his self-pity party.

He knows he shouldn’t be this petulant, but he can’t help it. He’s just lost everything. How can Mr. Fox not see it?

“This is not the end of the world, you know,” his mentor tells him. “Just a minor setback. I’ve seen your work. Others have seen it, too. Maybe you won’t start work under the Waynes’ aegis, but… My boy. You can be so much more. I know you can!”

Tim wants to scoff, but can’t. He sees Mr. Fox's face, can see how honest he is, and he… His heart can’t take it. He’s been through so much already. He wants to believe this so much.

So he listens.

“Your machines are a work of art,” his mentor goes on. “Anybody seeing them would know they’re worth their price. And I promise, I’ll put in some good words for you, though I think you won’t even need it. And with your inheritance you can probably open a shop in the Diamond District, right out of high school without going into debt. If I were in your shoes, I’d do that.”

Tim nods.

Mr. Fox is probably right.

“Thank you. Thank you for… taking a chance on me. And I’m…”

He can’t go on. He chokes up. He tries to swallow back his tears, but it’s hard. They still mist over, but when he looks over he sees his mentor dabbing at his eyes with a kerchief.

“Come, my boy. Shake my hand. Let us part as equals, because the next time we meet, I’m certain that you’ll be the master.”

***

While their parting is amicable, and Tim is reassured by Mr. Fox’s promises, this whole thing still leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He spends his days just eating, sleeping, and trying to get himself into working order.

This is ultimately why he accepts an order to make… a sex toy. There’s no better way to describe it. It is a good concept and a very sneaky idea. It’s a statue that, which a few clever twists and turns, can be shaped into a sex toy.

Tim gets right down to it, only to realise the school is no place to craft something like that. Therefore he goes out, with the school board’s permission, and purchases a small studio for his workshop. It’s a small house in Burnley, but it’s sturdy, and with minimal modifications he pays for, he has a working smithy where nobody can tell him what to do.

A few such toys and several outside orders later, Tim has to admit to himself he already has the bare bones of a possibly lucrative business on his hands.

He starts to plan.

He dodges his teacher’s well-meaning questions about the machinated statuettes that look too simple to fetch such a high price, and tries to do his dealings away from school. Which means Tim has to purchase a showroom/shop to peddle his wares sooner than he intended.

The account Mr. Cradlefare opened for him has a generous enough sum in it to cover Tim’s expenses along with his leftover money from the Waynes. He pools his resources together to purchase a small shop on a less travelled street that still gets enough traffic, and fills the window with some of his most delicate works.

His only problem is his schedule. Since he’s at school for the better part of the day, he’s only available in the afternoon and early evening to make his sales. At first he’s terrified it’d drive his clientele away… But it doesn’t.

Tim’s business booms. He’s just holding out hope that his teacher and the school board won’t hear of his creations' less than innocent use, because he isn’t sure getting thrown out isn’t an option. More so because he isn’t protected by the Wayne name or even Mr. Fox now.

For the first time in his life, he’s free to do whatever he wants, ungoverned and un-monitored, with nobody to catch his fall. And his fall would be huge, if what he’s doing ever comes to light. With the papers still dragging out the scandal his parents’ funeral caused, Tim isn’t sure his expulsion would happen quietly.

So he ends up putting a temporary stop to the toys, citing backlog and schoolwork as the cause, promising to pick work and sales back up as soon as he graduates.

His other side hustle, the charms, is going quite well though. He never considered how many people would want protection from certain creatures. It's staggering. His wrought iron window covers are selling like candy.

His business booms, and it earns him quite the name among his peers, and the school finds no reason to kick him out before his time. No, they give him more freedom, more leeway than ever before. He’s excused from classes before he has to ask for it. If he needs to make a sale, or visit a customer’s home to take accurate measurements, he can go with impunity. 

If Tim were anybody else, he’d probably use it for less innocent reasons, but he’s just glad he has a business to build from the ground up.

He has no time for delinquency.

By the time Spring rolls around, and Tim is handed his diploma, he’s an accomplished craftsman.

As he cleans his room out and hands his friends his business cards, telling Ives to keep in touch or else, he wonders if his parents would be proud of him. He hopes they would be. He has no illusions, but he’s his own man now with a lucrative career, and for him this is more than enough.