Chapter Text
Tim's parents were home. This happened rarely, only about once every two months, but when it happened everything had to be perfect. A single speck of dust might be the difference between his parents' staying and leaving. So they wouldn't find any dust.
He was waiting by the door when his parents got home with a smile and a nice-looking shirt. The shirt was itchy. He wished he could take it off, but his parents didn’t like when he wore anything more casual.
“Hello, Timothy.” greeted Janet.
“Hey, there, Champ,” Jack said with a fake smile. And that was okay! Tim could make him smile for real!
Tim’s smile brightened. “Hi, Mom, hi, Dad! I made dinner myself, and-”
Janet frowned down at him. “Timothy, you’re six now. Isn’t that a bit old for infantile nicknames like ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’? ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’ are much more mature, aren’t they?”
The young boy’s smile dimmed slightly before he brightened it again. “Of course, Mother. I made Herbes de Provence Shrimp with Basil and Pea Couscous.”
Jack’s smile became a little less fake at the mention of food. “Great job, Champ.”
Janet shot his father a look and then smiled at him. “Oh, that sounds delightful, Timothy. Would you take our bags upstairs while we get washed up for dinner?”
Tim eagerly nodded and took their bags up to their room, hoping that they might stay for longer than a day or two this time.
He got to the kitchen to see Janet looking at Jack’s tablet while Jack talked animatedly about something. They barely acknowledged his entrance and only nodded at him when he gave them plates.
After dinner, during which Tim was shushed whenever he tried to contribute to the conversation, his parents informed Tim that they would be leaving for a month-long trip in the morning.
Tim woke up in an empty house with a text from his mother explaining that they had to leave a little earlier than planned and asking him to please find space for everything they had brought back.
Tim enjoyed placing the artifacts his parents had found. He enjoyed reading the notes his parents put on them with the name of the artifact and its story. He took out the priceless objects, cataloging each one mentally until he came to… Was that a bag of sand?
…
Huh.
Apparently, they had gotten it from a blond British man that swore it was priceless, and they couldn’t open the pouch, so perhaps he was right. Weird. Well, at least the bag looked cool.
About a year after Tim’s parents had left him with the bag of sand, a few days after Tim had turned eight, at 4:36 PM, a figure appeared in his dining room where he was starting dinner.
The figure seemed to be male, he was dark, tall, and looked rather angry as he said in a deep rumbling voice, “Who took my san-” He broke off, surprised. “Are you a child? Where are your parents?”
Tim squinted at him. “Germany? Maybe? Somewhere in the European area at least.” They had last said Australia, but the tickets they had bought last weekend placed them in Germany, though they could have left by now. He was pretty sure they were going to Spain next, so still in Europe.
“That is unacceptable.” the man said. “Who is taking care of you, then, child?”
“No one,” Tim answered. “I’m eight; I can take care of myself. Who are you anyway?” He probably should have asked this sooner, but sue him. He was eight, the jury would find it hard to be impartial.
“I am Morpheus of the Endless, the King of Dreams. Who are you, child?”
“I’m Timothy Drake, king of nothing,” Tim said. “I am the heir of Drake Industries, though. And people call me Tim.”
Morpheus nodded. “Most humans call me Dream or The Sandman. I prefer Dream.”
Tim smiled. “Okay, Dream! What are you, anyway? I’ve met a few magical creatures before, who were drawn to the artifacts Mother and Father brought here, but you seem different.” The dragon had been alarming when it came for the fleece. Tim had thought his parents had been scammed by the man who now seemed to regularly sell them magical objects. The Colchian Dragon’s appearance had persuaded him otherwise, and he now regarded all objects the blond man sold them with suspicion.
Dream looked surprised for a moment. “Well, I suppose I would seem different to someone adept in the magical arts. Though you are a bit young.” He looked Tim over consideringly. “I am of the Endless who have been here since the dawn of humanity and who will remain until the last human meets their demise.”
Oh, so Dream was basically a god, then. That made sense actually. They stood in silence until, “You were looking for a bag of sand, though?” Tim reminded the deity.
This seemed to jar Dream from his thoughts, and he said, “Ah, yes. My sand. Do you know where it is?”
The young boy nodded. “Yeah, it’s in the ballroom. If you go in through the front door, the big hallway will lead to it.”
“Thank you, Timothy. I have one more question. What if I had wished you ill?” And was that concern? From a literal god? Wow, that’s kind of impressive. The magical creatures acting caringly toward him was one thing, but a god… Wow.
“You didn’t. You don’t have those… vibes.” Not the most technical term he could have used, but it worked. Tim had felt, or, rather, it had been more like seen, when he needed to be wary of anything magical.
Dream appeared intrigued. “Very well. Thank you for being such a hospitable host.”
“Any time.”
Tim hadn’t meant for that to be taken literally. Dream came back often.
Also, on an unrelated note, or so Dream kept insisting, though Tim had his suspicions, other gods, goddesses, and magical creatures kept appearing all saying they had been summoned. They all helped Tim with whatever they could, which, in and of itself was suspicious, but, paired with Dream’s too-innocent expression whenever it was mentioned, painted a pretty clear picture to Tim. But, whatever. It didn’t really change anything, anyway. Tim was still bothered by deities frequently.
…Tim couldn’t say he minded. The prophetic dreams were really weird, though.