Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~November 15, 1884~

The ten years old brunette murmured to himself. His sky blue eyes scanned the half demolished room where he and the other boys were supposed to sleep in. All as he tried to come up with something for tomorrow.

Tomorrow was going to be his day. Tomorrow was his turn to run some sort of errand for Zucco. Deliver some high priced jewel or artifact or some other dumb pricy thing to this rundown dump of an old building. Where all of Zucco's ‘gang’ resided. More like the orphans he “took in”.

He hated this.

He'd rather make Zucco pay.

Pay for all of this. For demanding Mr. Haily for ‘protection money’. For scaring away anyone who wanted to come to the circus. For tampering with… 

Dick closed his eyes, pushing away the image.

And then not letting the circus leave Gotham.

Mr. Haily was forced to give protection money to the mobster. And since Zucco wouldn't let them leave, Haily’s Circus was no longer a traveling circus. Instead, it turned into a theater house.

Dick had felt the initial hopelessness. 

Because now, his mother wasn't here to comfort him, hug him, calm him down or sing Romani lullabies and poems like she used to. 

Because his father wouldn't ever be able to rub his back when he was upset or praise him when he perfected a maneuver or mock argue with him about what his nickname was going to be.

Because they were no longer there. They were gone. Forever.

He cried and cried and couldn't stop.

And then, all he felt was anger.

Mr. Haily had to hire new people who knew how to perform plays as circus folk didn't do that. Dick knew he could do nothing to help Mr. Haily— something which the new hires kept on reminding him about. 

Dick saw only one solution to Mr. Haily’s problem— and he took it. 

He ran away.

This way Mr. Haily wouldn't have another mouth to feed. This way he wouldn't be a burden. This way he couldn't curse anyone else.

Maybe this way, the people he loved would finally be safe from his curse.

And that's what had gotten his thoughts to reel. 

Maybe he could curse Zucco instead. By stealing something from him. 

___

He ignored the voice in his head telling him how wrong it was. How terrible it would turn out. How much he'd be using everything his parents taught him the wrong way. They'd be disappointed. But… then, when would Zucco pay? No one was going after him.

___

So he planned the perfect night. He watched for the perfect moment. 

But he wasn't good enough. The plan wasn't perfect. There were things he didn't know. He couldn't know, ‘cause he didn't know how easy his life had been before.

…..And he got caught. 

Then beaten to an inch of his life…. till Zucco suddenly realized that Dick could actually be a ‘valuable asset’.

___

He'd never forget that night. The hunchbacked man standing over him with a wooden rod. About to strike do—

___

Here he was now.

Zucco wasn't cursed. 

___

“Yer gonna get me some pr’tties, boy” He'd drawled.

Dick didn't want to.

Thievery got him into this mess in the first place.

Dick barely said a word when Zucco kicked his abdomen. “Or forget ‘bout livin’.”

___

But Dick would wait.

And maybe one day Zucco’d—

“Pay,” he muttered out loud.

“Shut up, gypssy kid.”

Dick sighed internally, that was Zucco’s “former” best kid ‘thief’ — Freddie.

Ever since Dick was forced to work under Zucco, he easily became Zucco’s best. He had a skill set Zucco's other boys didn't. 

___

"My parents were acrobats. That’s how I—" he'd barely finished his sentence when the older boy glared at him and stated, "You get in my way, I’ll make you regret bein’ born.”

___

Dick didn't try a second time, he didn't try to mess with the older boy in any way or form. 

Freddie’s rep fell and he blamed one Richard John Grayson for it. So the blond, lanky, chestnut eyed boy developed some sort of hatred for him. 

Apparently, his solution was to ‘bully’ Dick. It probably didn't help Dick’s case that most of the boys in Zucco's ‘care’ actually liked Freddie —and didn't like him. Because apparently gypsy blood was tainted.
 
People in Gotham were superstitious.

The ten year old rolled his eyes and responded, “At least I ain't born from some thieving scum, ‘Eddie.”

That was true. Freddie’s father used to work under Zucco— before deciding to rat him out to the new Commissioner.

The other boys glared at Dick. And Dick resisted the urge to roll his eyes for a second time. He'd met girls less dramatic than them. 

Their ‘leader’ tried redeeming himself, “Watch it, Ricky. You don’ wanna make me mad.”

Oh yeah. 

Like Freddie could actually do anything to him.

___

He was pinned down. He hurt all over. His mouth was forced open. The blond dangled a roach a—

___

The ten year old rolled his eyes again, “I ain't ever gonna be afraid of a coward who hides’ behind others, Freddie.”

Strangely, Freddie didn't react like he normally did. He didn't go red in the face. He wasn't violent.

Instead, the blond gave him a chillingly cruel smile, “Awful brave of ya, Ricky. But... you should be.”

‘Spare me. Please.'

Dick let out a huff and gave out his signature cocky grin.

___

–the roach dangled above his mouth. Inching closer and closer–

___

He looked Freddie right in the eye. “Make me.”

-----

In all fairness, he should've probably figured something like this would've happened.

Zucco kicked his injured ribs and Dick bit his lip to muffle his scream. 

___

—he screamed and Zucco yelled at him to shut up. He didn't want this. It hurt. It hurt. Ithurtithurtithurtsomuch—

___

“I asked,” snarled the hunchbacked mobster, his face red, teeth bared. “WHERE WERE YA, RICHARD?!”

He definitely should've expected this.

Zucco had Freddie tell him that he wanted Dick go to the corner of Zucco's territory for some sort of deal. Dick was supposed to wait for someone called ‘Digger’ to deliver him a bag and then get it to Zucco.

Dick had waited for hours. 

But Digger never came.

The mobster’s mismatched eyes bore into him and Dick felt them dig his grave. Dick curled up. He tried to answer, “I was—”

His voice broke into a cough and he tried again, knowing full well that, no matter what he said or did, Zucco was going to beat him to the ground. 

___

—”You think that hurt? Lemmie teach ya a lesson you'd never forget.”-

___

The other boys barely hid their snake like sneers from him. 

From him. At him. Same difference.

He really should've figured out that something like this would happen.

Digger not coming was what it took for Dick to figure out that Freedie had given him the wrong place or the wrong time. 

And Dick knew that he couldn't exactly pin Freddie to the lie.

Not only would Dick have to witness Freddie get beat up and then have his guilty conscience bother him for a long time— the other boys would make his life a more of a hell than it already was.

He wouldn't be able to live on the streets ever again.

___

–His torso was on fire–

___

Despite knowing what would happen when he came back empty handed, Dick went back to Zucco, ‘cause he didn't know what else to do.

And here he was.

Zucco kicked his torso and screamed in frustration. The man’s hands went into his graying hair, pulling at them in a frenzy.

"Do you know how much that deal cost me?!"

He picked Dick off the floor by his throat and he threw him across the room. Dick hit the wall hard, his back arching at the pain.

He couldn't keep the scream from escaping his throat.

It only served to make Zucco angrier.

“SHUT UP,” the man roared. 

Zucco grabbed Dick by his throat and said, “I'm thinkin’.”

Dick brought his hands to Zucco's arms and struggled against the man’s grip. His neck hurt and Dick could tell he’d have bruises. Tears rimmed at the corners of his eyes.

He struggled harder. Clawed at the man’s arms. Nothing seemed to work. His arms were starting to feel wobbly. His ears buzzed. Slowly, all other sounds dissolved, until all he could hear was the buzzing.

And Zucco didn't look as if he'd be letting go any time soon. 

Dick felt his arms weaken and weaken. His lungs burned. His throat burned. He opened his mouth trying to suck in air. Nothing worked.

___

His head was under too long. There was no air. He opened his mouth and the liquid rushed in. He felt a distant pain in his scalp and he was yanked back. “...wha….et…..runnin’....”. Everything went black.

___

He could see black spots and stars. He felt his arms go slack right before Zucco decided that Dick had enough.

Zucco dropped him to the ground and Dick gasped for breath. 

He greedily gulped in as much air as he could even though it hurt.

It took him a while to understand that Zucco was talking. And he did his best to listen.

“—teal from Wayne tonight! Got it?! From Wayne!!”

Dick attempted to sit up. His body cried out in protest. He slumped back down.

The other kids stared at him. 

The newer ones, wide-eyed and scared.

The older, bitter ones— like Freddie and his gang— snickered.

There were few sympathetic faces.

‘Ignore ‘em Dickie.’ He told himself, ‘Ignore ‘em.’

He got up despite the pain and made his way toward the door. Most kids made a path for him. 

Freddie on the other hand stood right in front of him. A glorified sneer slapped on his face.

Hadn't he had enough?

“Told ya, Ricky. You should be scared of me.”

Dick’s blood bubbled and there lay a cold pit where his stomach was supposed to be.

He was scared.

He took a deep breath. (He had to get himself into it.)

‘This again?’

“I don’ know if I was stutterin’ last time I said it,” said Dick, his voice hoarse. “But in case it wasn't clear yesterday… I ain't ‘fraid of cowards, Freddie.”

Dick could see anger making its way on Freddie's face and braced himself. (Keep it going.)

Freddie pushed Dick to the ground, yelling, “I ain't a coward!”

Dick smiled. (Keep it going.)

 “Coulda fooled me.”

Freddie screamed before lunging at Dick. 

Dick smiled wider, expecting this. He raised his feet and Freddie landed right on them. Using half the strength he had left, Dick flung the older boy to the ground, landing right on top of his torso and quickly got up. He leaned over him.

“Only a coward beats on a wounded person, Freddie.”

He turned around and left out the open door.

The rush of cold air hit his skin and he trembled. His hands shook. His legs went jelly on him. He felt shaky. (Everything hurt.)

He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to calm down.

And that's when the gravity of the situation hit him.

He beat up Freddie and Zucco had him on a new job. 

And it was to steal something from Wayne. 

Freaking Bruce Wayne!

The playboy billionaire. The one who had high notch security. The one who lived right by the Gotham City Police Department. The one who lived in the ‘good part’ of Gotham. Where if you didn't know the walk and didn't know the talk, you were screwed. 

‘Steal from Wayne.’

Dick closed his eyes.

There was no way he could do it. Especially not alone.

But if he didn't, Zucco might not let go of his throat the next time he decided to strangle him. And he'd get broken bones right before it.

He shuddered at the thought.

‘Steal from Wayne.’

He couldn't do it. 

He couldn't even steal something like a painting from someone in a museum, let alone, ‘Steal from Wayne’.

He couldn't do it.

‘Steal from Wayne.’

Damn it. 

He only had one option at this point.

He couldn't go back to Zucco. Unless he wanted to get beaten to an inch of his life. 

He couldn't steal from Bruce Wayne. Because he was in no condition to and ‘cause the security was top notch. 

He couldn't hide out either. The boys would find him and rat him out and Zucco would actually beat him to death.

He couldn't go to the police. Zucco had too many connections there. And even if he got through, he'd be sent to some orphanage. 

And Dick knew better than anyone that it was easy to steal or kidnap from orphanages. Or churches. 

Damn it. 

He really had only one option. And the likelihood of him succeeding— or it working was very slim.

He didn't resist the urge to gulp.

He, Richard John Grayson, was going to do something recklessly stupid.

He was going to run away from Zucco.

----

Okay, so maybe he should've thought this through.

It was dawn. Zucco had given him till before this time to take something from billionaire Bruce Wayne. 

Dick decided to run away and he was so close too. He was nearly out of Zucco's territory. All he had to do was to turn a corner. But he figured, Zucco guessed what Dick was up to. ‘Cause he didn't think Zucco would set nearly every kid he knew after him otherwise.

Dick ran into a back alley and hid in the trash crates. He covered his mouth and tried not to let the stink or the pain bother him too much. He had to make sure he didn't make any sounds which could alert the boys.

He heard footsteps coming his way and shut his eyes. His heart was beating loudly. He didn't want to get caught.
 
‘Cause if he was—

Dick suppressed the urge to vomit at the thought.

And that's when he heard footsteps come his way. He froze, not daring to move an inch. He held his breath.

“You think good ol’ Ricky’s in here?”

‘Don't look in the trash. Don't look in the trash. Please don't look in the trash.’

“Heh, hidin’ in this dump,” came a second, conceding voice. “Come on. Everyone knows Ricky’s too arrogant and prideful fo’ somthin’ like that. We'd have better luck searchin’ for ‘im in an orphanage.”

There was a long pause and Dick hoped the two really, really thought that.

“Yeah, you got a point.”

Dick almost sighed in relief. He never had much appreciation for the rumors Freddie spread about him until now.

He heard the footsteps fade into the distance. 

Dick waited till he couldn't hear them at all and then waited some more.

When he felt his eyes start to droop, Dick decided that it was time to leave.

He managed to sneak out of Zucco's territory and slipped into another one. He ran until he found an abandoned looking warehouse. He hid behind a couple of crates to inspect it and then snuck inside. 

Dick tried to think. This was Dust’s territory. Big Bill Dust’s territory.

‘Big Bill Dust. He definitely had some beef with Zucco.’

Maybe if Lady Luck decided to take his side for a longer time today, he'd get himself out of Gotham.

It sounded like a plan.

Dick let himself sigh in relief. 

Maybe he could get some shut eye. After all, he ran all night and on top of that he was injured. And it was cold.

Dick smiled, letting himself calm down and tried to ignore his body’s pain. He felt a bit of the panic he'd felt earlier slip away.

“Boo!”

Dick screamed.

Chapter Text

~November 16, 1884~

The thing about the streets was that they turned your heart to stone. That or you died. It was a lesson the eight year old red-head knew well. His father had made sure of it.

It didn't work any other way either, and Jason (despite being ‘only eight’) had seen it too many times to not trust it. Heck, a lot of his old man’s words were too damn right to not trust.

It was simple. Gotham’s streets weren't safe. If he was stupid, he'd die. If he were naive, he'd die. If he wasn't cautious, he'd die. If he weren't alert, let down his guard, didn't carry a weapon, ended up with the wrong people, messed with the wrong person, wasn't through enough— he would die .

It didn't matter if it made his blood boil. It didn't matter if it wasn't fair. It was just the way it was. 

When a person had next to nothing, all they could do was survive . Survival no longer remained an instinct, it became their way of life .

When would he get to eat next, if at all? Could he survive the winter or get too cold and die? Would he get too sick? Or starve?

Would someone kill him?

That last one was an even more serious problem than it was before, now that he watched warehouses at the dead of night.

He remembered a time when it was him, his old man and Cathrine.

Happier times. 

Then Cathrine got involved with the wrong people and died. His old man was still left. All Jason had left. He hadn't kicked the bucket and that was good enough for Jason. Then his only worry was to avoid gettin’ his ass beat. When he had a roof over his head. Enough food to last the winter. Remedies of some sort to help with sickness. Blankets to keep him warm.

Then about six months ago, his old man messed with the wrong fella, one time too many. 

He died. 

It was then that Jason truly understood his old man's lessons. When he no longer had luxuries like a shelter or being safe or getting angry. No guarantee that he'd live to see the next day.

No food. 

No shelter.

No parents.

He was a fuckin’ orphan.

He was all alone. 

So he did what he had to. Whatever he could do. Lived on the scraps he could find. Slept in the safer alleys or abandoned crates. Stole money and food ( ‘cause God he was hungry).

So when he was offered a bit of money, two meals a day and a roof over his head— after his initial suspicion had passed— how stupid would he have to be to refuse?

Especially, if all that he had to do in return, was to watch a random warehouse every other Wednesday night and send out a flare if something went wrong. Sure he'd have to sit on his butt all the way from dusk till afternoon, but he was getting free food for it. So that was that.

It was a pretty simple jig. And it paid a lot. Jason was pretty good at it too. There weren't many who'd sneak into the warehouses Jason had watched, considering they belonged to someone in the better half of Gotham. But the few times someone had the gall to try, Jason had sent the flare at the right time on every occasion.

Gotham folk were a superstitious lot. He knew that even before he'd come across rumors about himself, being something like a ‘Devil’s Child’. Something to do with how he always “knew” the exact time to send the flare. And that he had a ‘unique’ hair color or something. Lucky for him, it was the very reason no one messed with him.

Ha. Pansies.

Or maybe it was a bit more than just luck that stopped folks from pulverizing Jason. Common folk were too superstitious to mess with him (they were dumb enough to believe in stuff like the Court of Owls for God’s sake). The rich lot was too damn snotty to ‘grace’ the ‘slums’ with their ‘presence’ (terrified more like it). And common thugs and the street’s kids knew better to even try.

Only the desperate, Jason had learnt over time, ever tried to hit a warehouse. Usually, it was someone with a high debt or a ‘master’ of some sort who the dumbass wanted to please. Heck, sometimes, an idiot who'd convinced themselves of being Houdini tried their hand at thievery. 

Poor bastards. Jason always sent the flare on time.

——

It was getting colder in Gotham. 

Jason knew ‘cause he was feeling like cold meat, hanging at a butcher’s shop. That and the fact that his breath came out in a white mist whenever he tried to warm his hands. The warehouse he was watching looked abandoned. Boarded up windows, rotten wood, a misty appearance. He wished he was watching one near a theatre. Just so he could hear whatever stage performance was playing, if only to entertain himself.

Jason sighed. His limbs were getting stiff and he had to move them constantly to keep warm.

He'd been expecting more excitement tonight. Given that he was watching a warehouse near the border of “enemy territory”. Especially, since no one in their right mind would get caught dead here.

Yet the whole night had passed and the only thing that had happened was a whole lotta ruckus from the other side of the ‘border’. It had kept Jason cautious the whole night. Especially, when it sounded too close for comfort. 

Nothing happened and Jason’s initial wariness died. He was bored and the sun was starting to rise. Just as Jason called it quits on something happening, he saw a brunette boy  who looked around his age, maybe a bit older (given his height), walking (limping) around the warehouse. Someone who had actually come from the other side!

At first, Jason was a little shocked (not that he’d shown it) and quickly shook himself out of it. Maybe it was nothing. The boy looked too roughed up to try anything. Heck, he was limping.

To Jason's horror, he watched the brunette go into the warehouse .

And Jason froze.

‘Cause for the first time he didn't know what to do. ‘Cause it was actually pretty smart. Coming in broad daylight at a time no one was around. When he couldn't send any flares. When the sun was too bright for them to be seen.

He had to be one of Zucco's boys. 

There was no one else that clever to set up a robbery during the day.

There was a cold pit forming where his stomach was supposed to be and Jason felt himself suppress a shiver that had nothing to do with the weather. He could hear his own blood in his ears.

If Dust found out, Jason would get butchered. Dust hated Zucco with a passion and too often said that Zucco's boys were thieves. Best of the best. Dangerous. Traveled in a pack.

He felt himself shake so he took a deep breath to steady himself.

The boy had limped in. He looked roughed up. He might not even be a threat. 

‘Stop being stupid, moron.’

Jason carefully checked all around himself, the warehouse and then snuck inside. He had to take care of this.

Once inside, Jason hid himself and watched the boy.

The brunette looked too out of it. Jason couldn't help but feel a pang of pity for him. An unease settled over him. There was a different air about the boy. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

It reminded him of an out of place item. 

Like something…. something that didn't belong.

A brief shimmer of light shone through the planks in front of the window. And Jason could see large hand shaped bruises around the boy's neck. From the look of them, they were made by someone larger, much larger than the boy.

Jason felt a familiar rage course through him. His blood raced through his veins till he could hear it in his ears. For the first time in a very long period of time, he felt… angry .

For someone else.

He hated it. It meant that he'd get himself killed.

But his hatred of the well off folk who could help the dirt poor but didn't, increased. He hated it that older people could get away with shit like this. Hurting the street's kids. It pissed him off that no one gave a damn if one of ‘em ever went missing ‘ cause they were just a bunch of ‘street urchins’ .

Jason forced back the anger and decided he'd continue to watch the boy, who limped to a dark corner of the warehouse and very stupidly sat down. 

Jason frowned. That…. That wasn't something anyone should do. Ever . 

He couldn't help but want to say something about the boy's dumbassery.

‘ You're not supposed to let your guard down in a random place, damn idiot!’

Was one thing.

‘Or relax there! Or start to lay down and — OH HELL NO!’

As much as Jason felt sorry for the boy…. NO ONE was sleepin’ in this warehouse! Not by a longshot!

Jason jumped down silently— a trick he taught himself and knew ( had hoped ) would come in handy— and took his knife out from his left pocket. He switched the blade from his dominant hand to his right hand. He then slipped his right hand into his pocket, keeping a grip on the handle.

The brunette didn't look or seem like a threat. The fella was too much of an idiot. But you could never know who was who . He'd have to somehow confirm if the boy was one of Zucco's or not.

Jason walked up to the half asleep boy, got real close to his right ear and in the loudest voice he could muster, he yelled out, “BOO!”

The boy shrieked and quickly backed away from him, gripping his ear. 

Jason remained in his spot, hidden by the shadows, grinning. He couldn't help but wonder just what someone like him was doing on the streets. He still had an expression of shock on his face!

You didn't show emotion on the street. His old man had said it was dangerous. 

He hadn't been wrong.

Jason slowly walked out of the shadows in front of the boy, who was still half backed up, on the ground. There was a weary fear in his dark blue eyes.

‘ Idiot.’ Jason couldn't help but think. ‘Get rid of that expression.’

Jason let a snarl settle on his face, his eyes narrowed in a glare, watching the older boy. In what he hoped was an intimidating tone, Jason started a cool line he'd heard a performer once say, “So punk ?”

The boy started to compose himself, his eyes focused on Jason. Half cautious, half weary.

‘Finally. Proof that this dumbass isn't a full dumbass.’

Jason kept his voice steady and (hopefully) dangerous and asked, “What's your name?”

To Jason’s surprise— not that he showed it — the boy responded in an equally steely tone, “Who wants to know?”

Yup, the boy wasn't completely dumb.

You didn't give your real name on the streets. That was something... Jason was still working on.

Jason decided to ignore the older boy’s question and asked, “You got a clue whos’ turf yer on?”

The boy furrowed his eyebrows, almost as if he wasn't fully confident with his answer. Nonetheless, he replied, “Dust’s?”

Jason had almost laughed.

The older boy was either oblivious to street affairs or he seriously didn't know . Anything . At all.

Jason almost laughed.

Almost.

‘Cause the boy actually answered the question, seeing how street dumb he kept on proving to be.

But that wasn't what surprised him. 

The boy had answered the question CORRECTLY.

Jason visibly frowned.

Because despite not knowing how street life worked, the boy knew Dust was here. 

And only boys from the Bowery or Gotham's Village knew shit like that. ‘Cause both Bullseye Stake down at the Bowery and Tony Zucco up at Gotham Village were people Dust hated . And they hated ‘im back.

And there was no way in hell the brunette was from the Bowery. 

Jason took his knife out of his pocket, startling the seemingly harmless boy.

The boy in front of him was definitely one of Zucco's . Which meant Jason was screwed.

Kids working under ‘random thugs’ usually had something in common. Like how Crime Alley kids, like him, were considered dangerous even alone while most snobby and petty pickpockets were at Crest Hill. Or that the Bowery kids were generally bulky and that the thieves resided in Gotham Village.  

Gotham Village kids were known for being built like sticks and having freaky agility… just like the boy in front of him.

Jason narrowed his eyes and bluntly stated, “You're one of Zucco's.”

The boy’s eyes widened and he backed further away from him.

That was all the conformation Jason needed. He quickly switched his knife from his right hand to his left.

‘But which one of Zucco's boys would have the guts to leave his territory?’

Two came to mind. 

Frederick Johnson, commonly known as Freddie. Rumors said that nearly all of Zucco's boys liked him. In a way, he was kind of a prince amongst thieves. 

Bullheaded snob really. Jason had a run in with the guy back when his old man was still kickin’. The blond had blackmail on any kid on the streets. The seventeen year old was one of the worst kind of street ‘kids’. He was the type you didn't want to run into. Ever.

The other was Grayson. No first name. The only things that could be said about him to sum him up were that he was apparently gonna be ‘ going to places’.

Rumors about him said that he could take on some of the most reckless, near impossible gigs that many of Zucco's men would back away from and he'd still come out unscathed. It had barely been a year since he joined Zucco and he easily plucked Freddie from his position (whatever they thought that was supposed to be) like removing a stone from a bowl of water. (For that alone, Jason had decided he already liked the boy. Despite the rumors saying that he had a big head.)

Then again Jason knew rumors well. Especially how false they usually were. Especially since the last person who’d messed with him, was a stupid blond called Freddie.

But if he went on rumors alone. There were no other candidates who'd actually leave Zucco's turf. 

It was either Cocky Freddie or Arrogant Grayson.

No one else had the guts to do it.

No one but one of Zucco's two favorites.

Now that Jason looked closer at the boy, the descriptions matched up. 

Dark brown hair which almost looked black, the dark blue eyes, the nearly undetectable hint of an accent to the boy's English and the slight foreign tannish tint to his skin.

This boy looked too much like Grayson. Heck, he probably was Grayson.

If he was right, it would make complete and total sense to why the boy in front of him seemed off and why he was so street dumb. He never started out as a street kid.

He just didn't belong . 

Not on the streets, at any rate.

….Except the rumors made him look like a proud fool who needed to get his head out the clouds. And older.

But well, rumors were rumors. Besides, last time Jason checked, Freddie had gold locks.

But the question still remained…

“So, Grayson ,” Jason started, consistently twirling the knife in his hand, semi-threatening, half nonchalant. Something that took him a lot of practice… and time.

New to the streets or not, Grayson or not, the boy was still one of Zucco's boys. 

The boy reacted. The fear in his eyes was glaringly obvious.

And he confirmed Jason's guess. 

The boy was Grayson. He was one of Zucco's boys. And not just any one of Zucco's boys. He was Zucco's best.  

Which made him the most dangerous out of them all. Even if he was beaten up. Or not how the rumors made him out to be.

“Just what is one of Zucco's pickpockets doing all the way down here… in Crime Alley ?”

The boy, Grayson, stood up, his eyes gone impossibly wide. He looked even more scared and curious at the same time. ( Geez. How could someone be this expressive?!)

Jason nearly snorted and bent down a bit, as if getting ready for a fight. He felt the blood rushing through his veins. Just in case.

‘ Grayson. Oblivious to his own fame. ’

Instead of drawing out his own knife, Grayson simply glared at the ground, making no movements.

“Well,” snarled Jason. “Ain't ya gonna take out your knife?”

Grayson looked up alarmed and shook his head exclaiming, “What?! No! I- I don't wanna fight!”

Jason wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion.

Just what in the world was this guy trying to pull? Was this a trick plot to get him horribly killed?

Jason kept his stance, his eyes still waiting. Waiting for that one threatening gesture. A sign. Anything that could help him figure out how hard, how fast and when the other boy would attack.

Yet, it never came.

Instead Grayson asked, “You– You're Todd. Jason Todd, aren't you?”

Jason made no indication to acknowledge him or act in any other way which would give Grayson the confirmation that yes, he indeed was Jason Todd .

But apparently, Jason’s silence was what gave him away because Grayson tried again, more confident this time.

“You're Jason Peter Todd. Son of Willis Todd. The one who—”

Jason interrupted him, clearly annoyed that his old man’s name had been brought up, “I know what my old man did. Don't need a reminder. Thanks .”

Grayson quickly picked up that Willis was a sour topic for Jason and actually apologized, “I-I'm sorry.”

Jason sighed. The fight drained out of him the second his father’s name had been brought up. Grayson was an idiot. He just wasn't in the mood to fight. But he had to do what he had to do.

“Bring out your knife,” Jason ordered. He half hoped Grayson would actually listen.

“But I don't want to,” Grayson protested, his expression panicked.

Jason honestly wanted to roll his eyes. This was just getting ridiculous by the minute. Time was running out.

When he came to the warehouse, he thought it'd be quiet.

He definitely had not thought he'd have a… guest . An injured one on top of that. An injured one from Zucco's turf. Someone, an idiot , who refused to fight.

Jason was getting frustrated. He, in all seven years of his life, had never met a street kid who didn't want to fight. He wondered again, if all this was just some plot to get rid of him for good. 

Unlike Grayson, Jason was well aware of his fame amongst other ‘ street rats ’. Manyafella would get a kid to get Jason out Dust’s turf so someone would kill him… or beat him up. After all, he was the ‘ annoying toll kid ’. The kid taxed with his father’s old ‘duties’ both as a punishment for his father's failed thievery and atonement for his parent’s betrayal to a bigger fish.

Pushing his irritation aside, Jason scoffed, “Then what do ya want?”

The older boy looked to be debating with himself.

So when the older boy actually answered. It didn't surprise Jason. What surprised him was the sheer stupidity of the older boy’s answer. 

Again .

“I- I wanna leave Gotham.”

And all Jason could do was gawak at him. He instantly took back every thought he had about Grayson not being fully dumb.

Grayson was an idiot! A moron! A nitwit! 

Maybe his shock was evident on his face because the next thing The-Spectacular-Idiot-Grayson asked was, “Wha-What’s wrong?”

Jason didn't give a damn if this was a plot to kill him. 

He put his knife back in his right pocket and stomped over to Dumbass-Grayson, grabbed him by his collar and practically yelled out, “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT’S WRONG?! ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?! ARE YOU AN IDIOT?! ”

The dumbass had the audacity to look shocked and ask, “What did I do?!”

The older boy's shock was appalling. Jason partially wondered if this was how Catherine had felt when he used to run off to the streets. 

He figured that he might as well take a damned breather before explaining ‘What was wrong’.

So, like a sensible person, Jason let go of Grayson’s collar and sighed, explaining, "You— you're stupid.” 

Grayson looked at him for two seconds straight before blinking confusedly, and asked, “ What?! ”

Okay. Maybe that wasn't the best way to go about the whole situation.

So Jason tried again, “You're stupid. A moron. A dumbass. An idi—”

“I know what ‘stupid’ means, thanks ,” Grayson interrupted, irritation clear in his voice. 

Maybe Grayson had thought he'd try to be helpful to Jason’s plight because he asked, “Could you tell me why I'm ‘stupid’.”

Jason sighed a second time. At this point, all thoughts of Dumb-Skull-Grayson, being in an assassination plot to kill him, left . Dissipated into thin air. Because there was NO WAY a kid this moronic could be in one.

Otherwise, he'd actually be a pretty good actor. And really, Jason just couldn't see it happening.

‘Cause for the first time, in a VERY long time, Jason let his guard drop in front of someone else.

For his sake own, Jason tried to explain for a third time, “For one, you're askin’ someone to explain why you're stupid to ya.”

“Hey!”

Okay . Maybe, just maybe that also wasn't the right way to go about this scenario because the older boy was giving him the stink eye and he looked about ready to argue.

Before he could though, Jason helpfully added, “You're stupid ‘cause you don' know a thing.”

Grayson looked irritated. Really irritated . The older boy raised his irritated eyebrow and asked, “What's that supposed to mean?”

Jason resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He sat down in front of Grayson. This whole thing was getting even more ridiculous by the second. He was tempted to bang his head on any nearby crates.

‘Grayson’s a newbie ,’ he reminded himself. ‘It's understandable he doesn't get it.’

Jason then elaborated, “It's ‘cause the wrong fellas got their eye on you.”

Grayson's irritated expression never left his face and he asked, " What !?"

Jason was starting to get pissed off.

‘It's okay,’ he reminded himself. ‘Grayson’s a newbie.’

(Or maybe Jason just sucked at explaining things.)

…Nah. That couldn't be the problem here. No way.

So, Jason further elaborated, “ Fellas , as in the big shots . Big shots’ got their eyes on you.” 

This was something Grayson desperately needed to understand, “And if the big shots got their eyes on ya… you can't leave Gotham— no matter what you do.”

Grayson’s face paled and his breathing became heavier. He stammered out, “B-but if I don’t leave, they'll kill me! I-I've gotta leave! I don't wanna die!”

Grayson was obviously shaken. His voice had been hysterical and tears brimmed from his eyes.

Jason was confused. 

Grayson really wanted to leave for some reason. 

Especially right after Jason told him just how bad of an idea that was. Maybe he should explain further?

Jason sighed and said, “The only way a runaway from a group’s ever left Gotham is in a body bag or, ya know, as a corpse, found in Metropolis River.”

The older boy looked at him and Jason could see the fear in his eyes. Grayson was scared . He was hurt and confused. And for some outlandish reason, Jason felt a tightness in his throat.

But still he said, “And what makes you think that Zucco won't have his fellas on the lookout for ya? That they'd have much of Gotham’s ins and outs under their thumb?”

Jason paused for a moment, if only to gauge Grayson's expression.

The older boy looked terrified. Jason sorta felt guilty, but he wouldn't sugarcoat the truth. The more you ran, the more you suffered. That was just how the world worked.

“Wha-what do I do,” asked Grayson. He looked as if he would puke.

Jason sighed and tried to think of something, anything that he could say. For better or worse, an idea popped into his head. Something, if done right, would help the older boy.

“So, Grayson,” he asked. “Just how good are ya at actin’?”

——

“They bought it,” breathed Grayson. “They actually bought it.”

Jason snorted, “You'd be surprised if you knew how much of a damn they actually give. ‘Cause they don't really care. But it's still better to give them an explanation anyway.”

“So that they won't question this later, huh” stated Grayson, his voice uncharacteristically flat.

Jason was surprised by the older boy's ability to catch onto things real fast.

“Yup. In about a week the rumor will spread. No one’s gonna mess with ya about your identity. ‘Cause if the rumor spreads it might as well be all the confirmation they'd need.”

Grayson looked at him with a strange expression. (One he hadn't seen since Catherine.)

“Jason,” started the older boy. “I really don't know what to say. I just– Thank you for… for everything.”

Jason felt a lump in his throat and an old warmth in his chest— a feeling he hadn't felt in a little over a year.

“Uh… no problem,” he responded. He internally cringed at the awkwardness of his response. 

They both were silent for a couple of minutes before Jason asked, “Since you're free as a bird, you got someplace to crash? Stuff to do, places to be?”

Grayson tensed up at the question, “I-I'm not sure. I don't know what to do anymore.”

As nonchalantly as he could manage, Jason shrugged and said, “You could stay with me for a while. If you want to.”

Grayson looked at him with the same expression as before and asked, “I– really?”

Jason gave the older boy an incredulous look and nodded, “When you find a gig, you could leave whenever you'd like. Fair deal don't ya think?”

The I don't want you to go was left unsaid and Jason hoped that Grayson wouldn't pick up on it.

“You know what,” started Grayson. “I'll take up your offer. Thanks Jason.”

“No problem Grayson,” replied Jason, going for the rhyme.

Grayson frowned and said, “Grayson is my last name. Call me Dick. It's short for Richard.”

Jason snorted. He couldn't believe someone would want to be called that. Willingly.

“Whatever you say… Dickie .”

Grays– Dick groaned. Then he suddenly smirked mischievously, “I'm glad we reached an understanding, Jaybird .”

Jason scrunched up his face in disgust, “That was awful Dickie. And I've been listening to your puns for a couple of hours .”

Dick smiled, “It wasn't that bad. I think it actually suits you.”

“Ugh,” Jason said. “You have terrible taste.”

Dick laughed and Jason couldn't help but smile.

‘ Maybe,’ thought Jason. ‘Things are looking up.’

Chapter Text

~February 21, 1885~

It had started simple enough. 

On some chilly January morning. It was cold and he'd been pissed off at Dickie and his “ morals ”.

The thing with Dickie was that he was different. He thought in a way that most Crime Alley Folk just didn't . Despite being a ‘thief’, the fella felt guilty for it.

Which pissed him off. 

Dick had this naive sense of justice. Of a right and a wrong . That what they did was a quote on quote “ wrong” .

He didn't get how it worked. That this was the only way they'd get to live. That they didn't have time to care about stuff like “ what if they needed it too ”. ‘Cause if they did, then they'd die.

And if Dickie wouldn't take what he (“ righteously ”) called “ is - more - than - necessary - Jason ”, then Jason would. He'd find a way to sort out rations and money and a temporary shelter— by himself if he had to.

Which was why he went to the place originally named Crime Alley , a place that people called a “hell on earth”. 

People still went there. ‘Cause despite its reputation, it was one of the best and fastest ways to get some dough. 

According to his old man at any rate.

Yeah, people got murdered. But this was Gotham. People got murdered everywhere . The cops were half the reason why it happened half the time. 

Cops did shit dirty.

He'd spent half his time running from ‘em more than anything else. Maybe some cops were okay, but at this point, Jason doubted it.

It didn't work that way. Not for a long time. And especially not for him. Pops taught him that much and he wasn't wrong.

Point still stood.

He needed money. Fast . This was one of the fastest ways to get it.

“ Go to th’ sixth door on the left from the oth’uh side o’ the old theater house. If yer gotta get you a quick bit o’ cash,” his old man had once said, drunk. A month before he kicked the bucket. “But not till yer older.”

Well, Jason was older than he'd been when his old man had given him that tidbit. And he'd needed more than just a “bit o’ cash”. So here he was.

“Password’s knockin’ three times to the right, twice to th’ left, at six, at one on fifteen then the entire round the other way ‘round.”

Took Jason a while to figure out what the old man had meant. He was talking about those fancy ticking thingamabobs that rich folk used to tell where they gotta be. 

He found himself on the steps of the place his old man told him about. He stood in front of a door, which looked self made and out of rotten looking wooden planks. Jason took a deep breath and knocked.

It took a while but a greasy pot bellied old man answered the door. He gave Jason the stink eye, observing him suspiciously for a good hour or two and finally asked, “Wha’ do ya wan’, boy?”

Jason eyed the old man warily and replied, “Cash.”

And that's how his weeks of hell began.

----

It started off nice and easy at first. Like the warehouse watch.

He was supposed to deliver packages off to some random Joe here and there. It was supposed to be simple and easy.

No one told him he'd be chased half the time. Or that he'd get beat real bad if he got caught. Or that if he got caught and lost the package he'd have it worse .

Hell, it was so damn bad that the Duke of Obliviousness, Dickie , could tell something was off. (He supposed that the damning bruises gave it away too.) But the point was, he was stuck knee deep. And he knew he was screwed. 

There was no way out. 

He was more pissed at himself for not realizing’ exactly what he'd gotten himself into. 

The fuckin’ drug shuttle.

He'd sworn himself away from that shit after what had happened with his mo— Catherine, after she'd lost herself to opium and then died ‘cause of it. He'd promised himself he'd never touch the stuff nor let anyone he knew use it.

Yet here he was.

What made it worse was that Dick was getting impatient. And his questions were getting persistent. 

He was asking way too many of ‘em and trying real hard to get up and into Jason's business. Jason just wished he'd stay out of it. But it didn't look like that was happening. And despite what Jason said about him, Dick wasn't stupid . 

If Jason wasn't careful enough, Dick would find out. The guy was a former acrobat and knew how to act pretty well. Hell, the guy had serious cred behind his name. He, for most of the part, could easily sneak up on Jason if he wasn't vigilant enough. And he'd be able to do it without making much noise.

Jason knew the whole thing was getting too much for him to deal with alone. But he knew better than to get someone like Dick involved. The guy didn't belong in the world Jason grew up in. He had a different outlook. A different mindset . Something Jason would never know.

He… he knew he was acting off. He was being jumpy. Too jumpy. Too paranoid. He couldn't help himself. He didn't know when someone would recognize him. Or what would happen afterwards.

“–ason.”

He had to go again tonight and last week’s injuries weren't gone yet. He hurt all over the place.

 “ Jason .”

“ What ,” Jason snapped. Sending a particularly nasty glare at Dick.

The older boy looked at him with concern, “I've been callin’ you for a while now.”

Oh. 

Oh shit .

He felt a steak of guilt flash through him and he quickly pushed it away. If he didn't sound mean he'd look suspicious. The only way he'd get Dick to back off was by pissing him off.

“What do ya want?”

Dick’s concerned look deepened and he asked, “Are… are you okay?”

(Heavy fist was coming his way. He—)

Jason blinked himself out of it and replied, “I'm fine . And I told ya to stay out of it.”

Dick looked annoyed and Jason felt a wave of guilt fill him. 

“Usually,” started the older boy. “I would've . But you've been coming back with bruises . The bad kind for weeks now, Jason. What the heck is going on?”

“ Nothin’ ,” Jason stressed.

“Like hell it’s nothin’,” exclaimed Dick. He placed his hand on Jason's shoulder. “Jason please, just… just tell me. Let me help .”

Jason slapped away Dick’s hand and yelled, “You can't help! Leave me alone!”

He walked away, ignoring Dick and his stupid concerned face and his stupid want to help everyone and his stupid ability to stick his nose where it didn't belong.

He had a job to do and like hell he'd let Dick stop him.

---

He'd taken as many twists and turns as he could. Dick had tried to follow him here multiple times. It was hard trying to hide something like this from him in the first place and Jason did not want to involve him in the shit he'd gotten himself into.

Dick not knowing was the only upside to the whole mess.

He knocked on the door the way the old man had told him to. A little while later, the door creaked open and the man stared at him. 

“Thought you was a no show.”

“Nah,” Jason replied. “Got held up.”

The man gave him a long look before handing him a package, “Booker’s place.”

Jason nodded and took the package. He hid it in his coat and walked off nonchalantly. He passed a couple of alleyways and tried to ignore the sounds, the people lookin’ at him wrong and the distinct feeling of being watched.

He gave the package, collected his sum and then bolted . 

Someone was watching him and he was being followed. Jason ran as fast as he could, taking as many twists and turns as he could. He knew exactly what could happen to kids like him. Who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

And like an idiot he ran into a dead end. 

His heart beat faster and he felt cold. He could hear footsteps coming his way.

“So, that's what you've been doing for the past weeks.”

Jason nearly jumped out of his skin, before recognizing the voice. He groaned internally. Dick .

“What are ya doin’ here, Dick.”

The older boy narrowed his eyes, glaring, “Figuring out where the hell you’ve been.”

Jason glared back, “Stay out of it!”

Dick flared up, his   blue eyes flashed with anger, “Like hell I’m staying outta this! What you're doin’ is dumb–”

Jason rolled his eyes, “ Great .”

Dick continued, ignoring his interruption, “–and dangerous—”

“And here we go, again ,” he said and walked slower. He walked out of the alley and took a turn, Dick following behind him.

All of a sudden Dick stopped talking and grabbed Jason's arm, pulling him behind.

Jason turned to him in alarm and Dick shushed him. 

The older boy looked around them and then slowly walked backwards, toward a wall with old rotten crates, away from the direction they were going, while keeping Jason behind him. 

“When I say ‘ run ’,” Dick whispered. “I want you to run up these crates as fast as you can and climb up the roof. Got it?”

‘The roof? What the hell Dickie?’

In less time it took to say ‘we're fucked’ , they were surrounded by a group. Jason couldn't help but berate himself for it. He should've paid better attention to his surroundings.

The group had teens and some older men in it. Two of them held chains, five had pipes and one had an actual knife. This wasn't going to end well.

The one with the knife, a lanky redhead ( the irony ), with growing bits of facial hair and grease all over him, stepped up front and asked, “Whachya got there for me, boy?”

Jason quickly thrust his hand into his pocket for his knife. This was gonna get ugly fast . He knew it from the stories he'd heard circling around as a kid.

Dick lightly pushed Jason toward the crates. He brushed past Jason and stood between Jason and the group.

“Nothin’ to see here. Just let me and my brother through.” 

Jason ignored the way his heart lurched when the redhead laughed and pointed his knife at Dick. Dick stood still, his eyes on the knife.

“ Run ,” he whispered, pushing Jason toward the crates again. 

“Kid thinks we're stupid,” the man spat out. “We knows what yer broth’uh’ s carryin’. He's been walkin’ in and outta here for weeks .”

Jason felt sick to his stomach and grabbed Dick’s hand.

“I can't,” he whispered.

Dick squeezed his hand and then let go.

“ Trust me, lil bro. ”

Jason felt his heart lurch again and he closed his eyes. He didn't want this. 

Dick’s eyes went comically wide. He looked like a really innocent kid. The older boy brushed past Jason and toward the man. 

“B-but he's not carryin’ anything. I'd know so.”

Jason felt as though he couldn't breathe.

The redhead raised his hand toward Dick and Dick flinched. The effect was immediate. The man brought his hand down, back to his side.

“Pathetic,” he spat. He pointed his knife to Jason. 

“Search ‘im.”

Jason felt his blood go cold. 

He saw Dick go rigid. The older boy took a few steps forward.

“ Run ,” said Dick, his voice unforgiving and cold.

Jason felt himself move before he knew what he was doing. He didn't know what was going on.

The readhead got angry and yelled something.

Jason climbed the first crate.

Dick let out a bone chilling cackle. 

There were more noises. Some of the men grunting in pain.

Jason climbed the fourth crate.

And then he heard it.

“Ya know,” the red haired man. “This one could cost a pretty penny if we deal it right.”

‘No.’

“Let me go, creep !”

Smack.

‘No .’

“How much?”

‘No.’

“Pump ‘im fulla dope and we’d see.”

‘NO. Not Dick. Please not Dick.’

He heard Dick groan in pain.

Not the only person who cared about him . 

He didn't deserve it. Dick was kind and caring in a way no one had been, ever . He didn't deserve this. He'd been there for Jason when he'd gotten sick instead of leaving. He stuck around through thick and thin.

Jason looked down and saw the man grab Dick’s face, like he was inspecting him.

No. No. No. Nonononono.

Jason moved before he knew what he was doing. He jumped from his crate on top of the man holding Dick. He heard a sickeningly satisfying crunch before the man screamed.

The others stepped back and the man holding Dick loosened his grip. The older boy slipped out, grabbed Jason, securing his arms around his neck and ran up the crates.

The men stood there for a few seconds and yelled.

Dick flipped to the roof with Jason still on his back and then kicked the crates down. He ran across rooftops, jumping. Jason held on tight, his heart hammering.

They stopped and Dick slowly lowered himself. He unwrapped Jason's arms from around his neck.

“You're never gonna pull this shit again. Got it ,” Dick said, out of breath.

Jason numbly nodded.

“Jason?”

Jason looked up to the older boy. Dick’s face went from strict to concerned in moments.

“Are… are you okay?”

Jason felt his eyes sting and his breath hitched. Dick had… he'd asked something similar. 

Jason felt the older boy wrap his arms around him.

Tears fell from his eyes. He hugged the older boy and Dick just...stood there murmuring reassurances, rubbing circles on his back.

“Never again,” Jason promised. “Never again.”

He'd never deal with drugs for the rest of his life.

---A few hours later---

They'd gotten back to their place and set themselves up for the night. Jason lay, awake. Events from earlier that night played in his head over and over again.

He didn't know what he'd do if something actually had happened to Dick. Jason felt a lump in his throat at the thought.

“Hey, Dick,” he asked. “Can I sleep next to you?”

Dick hummed in response. Which was the older boy's way of saying yes.

“Hey, Dick,” Jason started. He felt the lump in his throat tighten. “Did you…. did you mean it? The… the thing about us bein’ like brothers?”

There was a second’s pause.

“Go to sleep Jason,” said Dick, groggily. 

Then a minute later, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Not like . Are . We are brothers, Jason. Now try to get some sleep, okay?”

Jason… didn't know how to feel.

He…. he just needed sleep.

Yeah.… just sleep.

Sleep.

Chapter Text

~June 21, 1885~

In the months he'd spent with Jason, Dick had learnt a lot of things. 

One of the first being that Jason knew the back allies and dirt paths of Crime Alley ( and other questionable areas in Gotham ) a little too well .

Jason would just know where the best spots for sleeping were. Places that were more likely to hand over free food than others or which restaurants would dump good food too fast or too early. He would know who to avoid and why.

The implications behind that fact terrified him.

---

( “Trust me, Dickie,” the redhead had once said, about a man offering Dick a job which seemingly paid well. “That guy’s bad news.”

He ended up listening to Jason, just to humor him.

And a week later, he would learn (from another kid) that the man turned out to be a human trafficker, who lured young kids “fresh off the street” by tricking them into believing that they'd be working a solid gig.

They were never seen since.

Dick hadn't been able to sleep for an entire week after that. He ultimately decided that he'd never doubt Jason's judgment when it came to people. Ever .

---

The second very important thing that Dick learned was: Jason Peter Todd was reckless. As HELL .

Screw the shit about Jason knowing stuff about living off the Alley ‘cause he grew up on it. Screw it .

Jason was reckless and Dick was pretty sure that he'd get gray hair before he turned twelve. How did an eight year old get into so much trouble in the first place? HOW DID SOMETHING LIKE THAT EVEN HAPPEN?! 

Dick could literally remember and name a couple of instances in less time it took to say ‘ Oh my dear sir, it seems we've reached a misunderstanding’ in the most posh accent they could manage. (....They'd tried it. It really was true.)

...Like the time Jason hid a really bad cut from one of their failed muggings and when Dick asked him if he was feeling okay. Jason had tried to play it off as an “I fell funny.” 

Dick had a nasty shock the very next day when he found out that Jason had gotten really sick from it overnight because he never mentioned getting cut in the first place!  

Which ended up being how Dick met Sister Leslie at Saint Cadualace for the very first time in his life. It was a long story that involved him running around all of Crime Alley like a headless chicken looking for a Doc Leslie because Jason was so out of it that he didn't mention that ‘Doc Leslie’ was a nun who'd studied herbs .

Or that time Dick mastered a very important life skill he liked to call ‘how to follow the kid you consider your younger brother, unnoticed, ESPECIALLY when said kid was trying to lose you in a crowd (which he was unnervingly good at) even though you were following him from the rooftops because he knew you were onto him’ in a matter of days. Because Jason didn't realize that he'd gotten himself into drug trafficking.

Holy cheesebits ! I wonder what's in the suspicious looking package I got from a suspicious looking person in the middle of Crime Alley? Packaged sweets?

Okay, maybe . Just maybe he was worrying too much and for good no reason. But the thing was, everything about Jason worried him. 

Jason was small and Dick worried . No matter how many times Jason protested and cussed and insisted, “SMALL?! What the hell, Dickie?! I'm bigger than half the twerps here!” 

Sure , Jason was a bit bigger than the average eight year old. Sure , he had a bit of a bulkier frame than most kids. But it didn't change the fact that Jason was small.

And small eight years old Jason — his younger brother— caught the eye of human traffickers by complete accident because he didn't realize that he was trafficking drugs until it was almost too late.

If Dick hadn't worried before when Jason snuck off randomly at some point during the day only to return late from “It's none of your business, Dickie!” or “Stay out of it!” with a bunch of… highly concerning, VERY alarming scrapes, scratches and bruises, if he hadn't worried when Jason snuck off in the middle of the night to “I told ya to stay out of it, Dick!” — he sure the hell was “worried” now.

The bigger problem was that Jason almost didn't seem to fully care about ‘gettin’ roughed up’ because his response to all the bad things that happened to him or when he got hurt was to make jokes out of it . Because “What happened ‘s already happened. No use cryin’ over it, Big Bird.”

And Jason had just looked so sad and so resigned that Dick felt like crying and then he needed to hug him and pat his head. 

Jason had squawked.

There were other things that worried him, too. Like Jason's bad habit of sneaking off in the middle of the night when he thought Dick was asleep. Which caused Dick to not sleep because he was too busy worrying.

His solution was to follow Jason when he snuck off at night. He thought he would feel better because that way if Jason was ever in trouble, he'd be able to help him. Because he knew Jason would never ask for help even if he needed it. February was proof enough.

He thought wrong.

He didn't feel any better. He felt worse .

Because Jason… Jason was reckless as hell .

Night after night Dick would end up watching over Jason from the rooftops. Night after night Dick would watch as Jason barely narrowly escaped death with nothing but a few cuts and a couple of bruises and small amounts of money to show for it. 

Day after day Dick would ask Jason where he got those bruises and cuts, hoping that Jason would just tell him straight out. And Jason would always shrug nonchalantly and hold out the money he got as if it would stop Dick from worrying.

As if it would stop his heart from squeezing so hard that he could barely breathe . As if it could stop the churning in his stomach whenever a hand was less than brushing away at Jason's shirt when he was trying to run to safety. As if it would take away the feeling of being drenched in a bucket of ice when Jason almost had to fight for his life to get away.

Because it could've ended worse .

He'd run back to their spot mere minutes before Jason. Pretending to have slept. 

Before, when he managed to close his eyes, he'd see his parents, falling to their deaths. 

But now? All he'd see was Jason . 

Small and helpless, little Jason, cornered. He'd see his little brother unconscious from a blow to the head and some creep getting closer and closer. He'd see his little brother, terrified and hurt from trying to get away because he knew he was about to be horrifically murdered.

Dick wanted to talk to Jason about it. He really did but then he'd remember Jason's reactions to Dick calling him his little brother and how he had flinched the first time when Dick tried to give him a hug,  even though Jason trusted him. And then Dick would end up not saying anything.

He'd end up accepting all the lies and excuses Jason would come up with. Just trying to be there for when Jason would need to be patched up. Because how did you bring up something like ‘Whenever you sneak off at night I can't sleep because I get scared and worry about you to the point I get vivid nightmares of you getting brutally murdered’ to an eight year old who grew up doing everything that frightened Dick just so he could survive another day— live through another night .

So he didn't.

Jason didn't need to deal with Dick’s emotions on top of everything else he went through. Was going through. Dick was the older one anyway. Dick was eleven and Jason was only eight ( almost nine ). 

What scared Dick the most were those times that Jason would just… freeze . It was like Jason's body was there but Jason wasn't. Every time that happened, it took Dick a while just trying to get Jason to respond. It was terrifying because ‘ What if Jason froze up while he was trying to get away from someone or something dangerous?’

The biggest problem was that whatever made Dick worry, annoyed Jason. Jason saw it as nagging, as Dick ‘ gettin’ up in his business’ , as Dick being naive .

And when Jason got annoyed, he walked off to who knows where . Which in itself was terrifying because no matter how hard Dick tried, he wouldn't be able to find Jason at all .

Which was why when Jason had told him about the Summer Solstice and that “ many rich fella are all over the place” and that apparently meant that there would be “pockets ripe for the pickin’ ” and that it was “no big deal”— Dick knew that there was NO WAY he'd let Jason go out by himself. It sounded dangerous and there'd be NO WAY he'd let Jason go out to do something anymore dangerous than he already did.

He didn't want Jason to get hurt. Not if he could stop it. Not if he was there. ( Not if he could take his place. )

----

It was hotter than usual for a June night and the smell of gin and vomit hit his nostrils. His stomach churned and he wondered for the umpteenth time tonight if he was just imagining it or if the heat was making the smell worse . 

Jason seemed completely unaffected.

Jason smiled as he watched the ending of the performance and Dick decided to let him be. The eight year old seldom smiled genuinely. He wasn't ever thicarefree away from… well, wherever the two of them decided to crash for the night. 

The performance was coming to an end and they had work to do. A few minutes later the applause sounded and the audience thinned until all that were left were the occasional stragglers and an old couple with fancy clothes.

Jason signalled Dick. And he made his way toward them as they exited. He pretended that he was in a rush and 'bumped' into the old man,  his hand reached into his pocket and grabbed whatever he could find. He quickly squaked and as if it were an accident apologised.  

He ignored the angry yells of "Watch where you walk, you unruly urchin!" and "The nerve! Do they think they can do whatever they please? Ruffians! The lot of them!" .

He made his way back to Jason before they could realise that they'd been robbed.

"So, what did ya get?"

----

It was a fun night overall and they'd managed to get enough things they could pawn for a good price. Enough to last them at least three weeks!

They decided to call it a night and go back to a somewhat safe backalley they'd found.

The moon shone impossibly bright. They walked in a comfortable silence. Navigating their way through twists and turns until they reached a wide dirt road. A few minutes along the path Jason froze and grabbed his arm.

"Dick," he hissed. " Look ."

Jason pointed at broken pieces of wood and thick random droplets of— something— just a few paces ahead of them. 

Dick held his arm out, in front of Jason. “Wait, here, Jay.”

He ignored Jason's grumbling and walked closer. He didn't realize that his heart was pounding till he coughed. Until he was right above it.

That was blood and there were long drag marks. Uneven drag marks— like something large skid across the ground.

He took a step forward. 

Splash.  

He looked down. That was a puddle of blood. 

He looked forward. There were shambles of wood, metal and— were those carriage wheels?

He walked even closer to the wreckage and his eyes widened.

There lay a broken carriage. Caved in. The roof piercing through broken floorboards drenched in blood. A tuft of blond hair was stuck on the floor board. A man's arm from under. 

There were deep marks in the earth. Five of them. The size of fingers. Like the man’s. One of them had a golden gleam to them.

The marks were filled in with…. with blood.

He swallowed. 

That...that was a lot of blood.

He felt the wind blow. A shiver ran down his spine. He smelt wet copper, leaves, dirt and… peanuts?

-

SNAP.

They were screaming out. They knew what was happening. But they couldn't stop it. 

No one could.

CRACK.

The crowd stared, eyes wide. There were gasps of horror. Some stood from their seats.

And for a second, everything was silent. No one dared to breathe. No one moved. All anyone could do was stare. Horrified at what they'd witnessed.

All Dick could do was stare.

Stare at the mangled mess of human flesh and bone and blood below him.

His… his family didn't look like that.

They were bright smiles that lit up his foul moods. They were the playful arguments at dinner. They were what chased away monsters after bad dreams. They were summer days and the warmth at winter nights.

They… they weren't the tangled mess of unnaturally twisted limbs he stared at. They weren't the pools of blood, growing by the second. They weren't the bones sticking out of human flesh. That's… that's not what they were.

And then he'd realized it.

They WERE.

Were.

He felt a numbing cold seep into his body. Carving out an empty space. He never knew he'd screamed.

-

“ DICK !”

That was Jason. 

He looked around wildly. The tent was gone. The crowd was gone. The bodies were gone. He spotted Jason. 

His shoulders sagged. He felt the tension leave his body. His little brother was safe. They were walking to a place they knew that they could sleep at— safely.

Dick swallowed and responded. 

“Jason.” 

His voice was hoarse and his throat burned like—

“You were screamin’,” Jason said. 

He looked shaken.

Dick swallowed again. “I…,” he didn't know what to say.

“Sorry,” he said lamely.

Jason barely acknowledged it and after a while asked, “Do… do you get ‘em too? The- the wakin’ nightmares?”

Dick frowned for a moment, trying to take in the question. 

Oh .

He swallowed before asking, “Memories?”

Jason's eyes went dark. And for a moment Dick was afraid he would become unresponsive. To his relief the look faded.

To his horror, Jason nodded .

For a moment they both stood there because neither knew what to do.

“Let's just go,” said Jason awkwardly. Dick hummed in response.

Jason deliberately avoided looking at the wreckage and grabbed Dick’s arm, guiding him away from the carnage, the coppery air, the fall .

He frowned. That wasn't right.

Jason wasn't at… at their fall . He didn't even know about it.

No, no. Jason was talking him away from a… a... a carriage accident .

They continued to walk. The silence was no longer comfortable. Everything felt a lot less foggy and more twitchy . A lot worse than he was nervous. Somewhere along the way, Jason let go of him.

The darkness almost seemed as if it loomed over them. It didn't help that there were many marks on the dirt path. Made from carriage wheels .

Dick felt an ache in his legs. There was a sharper pain in his feet. He… he was tired.

He wanted to forget.

Jason suddenly stopped. Dick stopped too.

“Hey, Dick,” started Jason.

“Yeah?”

“Do… Do you hear that?”

Dick stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded— and then he heard it too— a whimper .

More accurately— a child's whimper.

Dick and Jason both turned to look at each other. And for once the exact same thought ran through their heads.

Let's check it out .

They walked off the path, a little bit into the woods, closer to those pained whimpers.

There were skid marks in the dirt. Jason's breath hitched. Dick immediately grabbed a hold of his arm, squeezing gently, to let him know that he was there. Jason looked at him for a second before turning away and Dick knew his little brother was afraid. 

Afraid of what they'd find.

“Hey,” Dick whispered. Jason looked back at him. 

“It'll be okay,” he said softly. He lightly pushed Jason behind him and walked forward to the whimpers of a possibly dying child.

He kept going forward. He heard Jason take a deep breath from behind him and walk toward him. Jason tugged at Dick’s sleeve as if to let him know that he wasn't letting Dick go by himself.

They'd both seen death before. 

Death, a lot closer and a lot worse than this.

They walked until they saw sharper skid marks and broken branches. They got closer and—

“It's a kid,” Jason breathed.

Because there lay a kid, with scratched up skin, wearing dirtied and ripped up rich people clothes. By some miracle, not on the verge of death. No messed up limbs or broken bones. A living breathing kid.

A small boy with raven hair and pale skin— whimpering .

Chapter Text

~June 21, 1885~

Everything hurt.

Echos.

There were echoes somewhere close to him. His ears were ringing. 

His mouth was open. Was… was he making those echoes?

Darkness tugged and pulled at his vision.

He couldn't fight it. 

He was… too tired to try.

-----

—-~December 25, 1882~-—

Timothy Jackson Drake knew he was considered intelligent. His tutors certainly seemed to think so. Though he didn't quite know why they thought that. Maybe it was because of how he could string facts together?

So when he was exactly four years, five months and ten days old, he wasn't completely surprised to realize that Santa Claus wasn't real. Even though it was disappointing. It was also at that exact same moment when he would realize that adults DID lie. 

It was his very first memory. A snippet from a snowy December day. Waiting for his parents to come. Having asked Santa to bring them home for Christmas.

Snow had piled up outside. He had sat on his knees, on top of a chair pressed in front of the windowsill; hands and face squished in front of the glass to get a better view of the gate. He'd back away from the glass if it became too warm, and his reflection would stare right back at him. 

His already pale skin looked even paler than usual that night, his cheeks flushed red. His gray-blue eyes had stared back at him, twinkling with a childish excitement that he would later learn was BAD. His raven hair had been messy because he had been out of bed, past his bedtime, looking out the window and waiting for a carriage with the Drake family symbol on it to arrive. 

Because the wish he made for Christmas was for his parents to come home.

He had quickly wiped the frost forming on the glass again and again off the window because his parents were coming home and he wasn't going to miss watching their carriage arrive. They were finally coming home from a very long business trip and he would get to see them! He could just… go to bed later.

He'd sit there and wait. 

He'd end up waiting until the sun would start to rise. He’d wait for a carriage that would never come. Because his parents had to take a last minute invitation for another business trip— which he'd learn about later, through a letter the next morning— not that he'd be well enough to receive it immediately because of how cold it had been at night— a letter which would be sent by his father's aide.

He would try very hard at pushing away the disappointment that he'd feel. And he would remind himself that his parents’ business was very important. How else were they supposed to afford feeding and clothing and housing and educating him? 

So what if his parents didn't have enough time for him? Their business was important. It was a fact that he'd just have to live with.

And then, later, he would wonder if he was a good child and he'd ask the adults around him. They'd tell him that he was well behaved and very well mannered for a boy his age.

‘Oh,’ he would realize even later, after thinking about it for a few days. ‘Santa isn't real.’

Because if Tim had been a good, well behaved boy, and his wish hadn't come true then that would mean that either he wasn't good enough or Santa wasn't real. But because if he was a good boy, like all the adults had said and his wish hadn't come true, then that meant Santa wasn't real. Which wasn't very nice because that meant everyone had lied to him either way.

He would ignore the sadness and disappointment he'd feel. Like always he'd end up rationalizing it because he was supposed to be able to understand things like this. So he did.

If Santa was real, then why didn't he grant any of his wishes? He was a good boy like he was supposed to be. (His tutors, his nanny and the servants always said so.) But whenever he asked Santa to bring his parents home (twice now), they never came. 

If he was being honest, Santa being real hadn't made any sense in the first place. Because how would he be able to travel around the whole world in about a day in the first place? Where would he have gotten that many gifts? If he was real then did he grant adults' wishes too? If he did, then why did they seem so miserable all of the time? Why didn't his parents ever come home?

Well, at least his mother sent him letters sometimes.

-------------

 ~June 21, 1885~

Tim tried to open his eyes but his eyelids protested against it.

When he finally managed to convince them, he was hit with a sharp pain in his head. He closed them immediately.

He tried again, slower than before. 

What in the world was he looking at? He blinked a couple of times.

There were two blobs in front of him. 

He blinked.

'Oh.'

His vision was hazy. His eyes really wanted to close. 

One of the blobs— a person, he realized— was saying something. He couldn't quite make out what it was. Strange.

Why couldn't he hear properly? His ears weren't ringing that bad. The ringing was more in the background than outright deafening. Still, it made his head hurt.

Darkness tugged at his vision again. He fought back. His stomach churned and a weariness crept into his bones.

He needed to get up. 

He needed...

The ring. 

His mother had said keeping it safe was important. His father had been wearing it.

It was important.

But he needed it. 

Tim didn't want to figure out how to take it from him. He didn't want to get hit again. His father had managed to stop doing that. Dana didn't like seeing the bruises.

The two blobs stopped talking and stared at him.

Was there something on his face? Did he say something? He hoped he didn't. That would be bad for his parents reputation. His mother said so.

There were black spots dancing in front of him.

Why were they there in the first place? They were changing colors too. Like little fireworks.

Everything faded away for the third time that evening.

----------

—-~September 23, 1883~-—

It had been ten days since his parents had come home and Timothy, now five years, two months and seven days old, had seen his parents a lot more than... well, ever! 

They never stayed for too long and sometimes they were strict. His mother was very focused on his education and etiquette lessons. His father was even stricter with his physical education.

He often wondered if his mother read his tutors' reports? Or that his father, the fencing instructor's? 

He wasn't too sure. His parents were very busy for something that trivial. Or maybe they did because his mother sometimes wrote words like: "...Timothy, don't forget to revise the rules we rehearsed in our previous letter."

He wasn't sure because she hadn't talked to him yet. His father hadn't talked to him yet either. So he figured that it was okay. He could wait. 

Besides, he had started to sneak out of bed late at night ever since his parents had first come home, which he knew was bad… but these were special circumstances! 

He even managed to avoid all the maids and guards patrolling the halls without bothering anyone. So there was no way he would get into any trouble. 

The nicest thing was that he saw his parents almost everyday! Well, okay, so he saw them at night. And maybe they didn't know about it. But the point still stood: he saw his parents everyday!

Sure, he had to hide behind the armor in front of his father's office or behind the curtains in front of his parents’ room so he could catch glimpses of them whenever the door opened or closed every few hours. It was fine with him. No one was going to come looking for him anyway.

He caught glimpses of his mother's raven hair as she talked to someone visiting her. Or random slivers of his father's brunette hair or his pot belly as he moved around, getting papers for the people who visited him.

Sure he would sit and wait for hours and it hurt sometimes, but it was okay! His parents were busy. And he couldn't be a bad son who bothered them when they were clearly tired. And he knew that if he acted clingy it could ruin his parents’ reputation. 

And that was bad. 

It would make people think that the Drakes were undignified and weren't a loving family. Which wasn't true. His parents did love him! They… just couldn't be around that often to do anything together. They worked hard, just so that he could be fed, clothed and live. So he didn't have anything to worry about at all.

And besides! They were going out together today! They were going to the Autumn Equinox Gala!

Tim had imagined what that would be like. They'd ride a coach together, they'd be invited inside a different estate (and Tim had never stepped foot out Drake Manor before so he was really looking forward to it) and Tim would get to make friends!

Maybe he'd get to show off all the etiquette lessons he'd had! His parents would be so proud of him!

The thought of it made him so giddy that he didn't mind it when the maids dabbed at him with a scruffy cloth that scratched at him more than it cleaned him. Or when their nails slightly dug into his skin when they were dressing him up in all white— the theme apparently (he was disappointed that the contact didn't last very long). Or that he didn't get time to eat anything at all in the rush to get there in time.

He hoped the carriage ride would go better.

——------——

~June 22, 1885~

"..id! Hey! You 'wake yet?"

He didn't open his eyes. His head was hurting a lot. He didn't want to answer the voice.

"Com'on, Jason", said a second one. "Give 'em a minute or two. He's prob'ly in a lot of pain right now."

Tim was in a lot of pain. How did the person know? Was he a doctor's assistant? He sounded very young to be one though. Maybe he was an apprentice to the assistant? That… that didn't make any sense.

He tried opening his eyes only to be blinded by a bright flash of white. Pain like no other ran through him. He closed his eyes immediately.

He realized that he was whimpering before shoving his hand in his mouth. He knew better than to be loud. He didn't want his father to hit him with his cane again.

A hand touched his hair. Tim froze. Distantly he registered that it wasn't as big as an adult's hand. That it wasn't his father. That made sense. His father didn't really like him very much.

The hand slowly weaved through his hair. It… felt really nice, actually. For the second time in his life, he was left wondering: Was touch supposed to feel so floaty?

The person rubbed gentle circles in his scalp. See! He felt very floaty. 

Someone else moved his hand away from his mouth. He'd forgotten that he did that. He hoped he wasn't being loud. He didn't want to bother the nice people.

The hand stopped for a moment. Tim let out a sniffle without meaning to. He hadn't thought that the not-father person would've minded. He messed up, didn't he? He always messed up. Why couldn't he do anything right ever?

The hand started to rub circles in his scalp again. 

Oh. 

Maybe he didn't mess up. Thank goodness. He didn't want them to stop. It felt really nice. It made the pain feel a little better. He felt himself fade out of consciousness. 

-------

—-~September 23, 1883~-—

The carriage ride hadn't been any better.

He felt nauseous the whole way and because of that he ended up disappointing his mother.

“My word! Timothy,” said his mother, her sharp jaw clenched, her raven eyebrows narrowed. 

Why did he mess up again? It had only been ten minutes. Only ten. 

“Your posture is lacking. What will all those investors say!”

Tim felt his heart sink and he felt even more nauseous than before. He tried not to seem upset and quickly straightened his back a bit more in what he hoped was proper posture.

“Sorry mother,” he said quietly and downcast his eyes. Why couldn't he be better?

His mother’s light gray-blue eyes softened and she leaned forward, her hand outstretched. Tim felt himself freeze as his mother touched his cheek. He felt himself lean into it.

He didn't know that touch could be so…. floaty.

His mother sighed and closed her eyes, “Just listen to what we tell you to do.”

Tim closed his eyes and nodded. His mother's hand didn't stop petting his cheek. It was nice.

It wasn't long before they arrived at the huge black gates of the Elliot family mansion. He knew because he had memorized the family crests for each of the most prominent families in Gotham. His mother had written to him that it was very important that he do so right away. 

His mother asked, "Do you remember those important rules I told you about?"

Oh! His mother was testing him! He knew this!

"Of course, mother."

His mother smiled, "I would hope so, especially with how much your teachers seem to praise your quick mind."

….His mother read the teachers' reports? That was unexpected! But a good surprise! He would definitely try to work even harder from now on!

His mother asked, "How must a Drake present himself at all times?"

Tim got rid of any emotion on his face and evened out his voice, "A Drake must seem impassive but remain focused and alert. I am to make sure that no one knows how I'm feeling by looking at my posture."

His mother gave him a scalding look, "'I am', Timothy. Not "I'm". You are not a juvenile."

Tim felt his heart sink again. He couldn't believe that he made such a stupid mistake.

"Otherwise, your answer was correct," his mother amended. 

Tim felt guilty. He was making his mother make him feel better. It wasn't her fault that he messed up. He needed to do better.

"What is the first course of action that a Drake must take when in the company of someone he wishes to have a future business partnership with?"

He knew this. He could do this.

"A Drake must greet him with a firm and strong handshake while keeping eye contact."

"Precisely," said his mother. "Which is something you forget to do when you apologize earlier. It is alright for now but in the future, do not forget to do so. People take advantage of those who they perceive as "weak". Lastly, which rule is the most important of them all?"

He was lucky that his mother was so forgiving. His tutors often weren't. 

"Emotions are irrational," he answered. "They make a person more susceptible to manipulation. Therefore I must present myself in such a way that others assume my emotions so that I may steer them anyway I wish to do so."

"Good, I ex–"

"Honestly, Janet," said his father, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated annoyance. 

"Timothy is a child. Just have him behave like all those other children his age do. Tell him not to talk and keep himself outta the way until we call for him."

Tim froze and kept his gaze on the carriage floor. He didn't know how to fix this. He could feel the anger radiate off his mother's blank face.

"Whatever you say, Jack dear."

He saw his father clench his jaw. 

His mother turned back to him, satisfied and said, "What your father is trying to say is that you must not forget that children are to be seen not heard. Do you understand?"

Tim nodded. That was okay. He could remain silent. He would behave.

"Use your words, Timothy," his mother reminded him sternly.

"Sorry, mother. I understand."

"Good," said his mother curtly. 

The carriage stopped.

His mother immediately got out first. That was kind of confusing. Especially since all of his etiquette lessons said that the male was supposed to get out first and escort the lady he was attending with. 

His father sighed. 

"Timothy."

Tim looked up at him.

"Yes, father?"

His father sighed again and smiled, patting his back, "If you ever end up in a situation where you're not sure what you should do, listen to your gut. Intuition. Whatever 'fancy' word your mom and tutors use. Just follow your instincts."

He had a distant look in his eyes, "They're usually never wrong."

Tim internally frowned. Were galas really that scary?

It must have shown on his face because his father sighed and said, "Nevermind. Just... just behave."

He could do that.

The coachman helped them out. They walked all the way to the front door where a guard took their invitation and announced their presence. 

The ballroom was huge. It had a soft gold glow to it. From the light bulbs or the candles, Tim couldn't tell. Glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling, crafting an elaborate pattern miles away from the ground. Even the walls seemed to glitter.

He had never seen so many people in one place before in his entire life! Guests mingled about. The women with long flowing gowns similar to his mother's, all in different designs and jewels of white, black and gold. The men wore clothes like his father's and his just in gold or white.

It was easy to distinguish the workers from the guests. For they expertly weaved their way around carrying platters of refreshments for the guests, who seemed ignorant to their presence. 

His wonder lasted for a fraction of a moment before he schooled himself. He was a Drake and that meant he had to act like one too.

Within moments, Tim wore the smile he'd seen in the ancient Drake family portraits— one he'd been practicing for months and ended up shaking hands with all the people his parents introduced him to, answering only when spoken to. Soon, much like the staff, the adults forget he existed. Just like how they were supposed to.

Tim looked at his hands and traced the lines on his fingers. He found himself to be hopelessly bored. But he knew better than to voice it. He had desperately hoped that he would get to spend more time with his parents. But they were both busy.

Tim understood though. Managing the Drake family fortune was no easy feat. It was no wonder that his parents had no time for him. On top of that this was an important gala. It would give his parents the opportunities they needed to further their business.

So Tim didn't mind it much, that his mother would rather talk to the wife of the man his father was trying to strike a deal with rather than him. She did at least try to talk to him whenever she could though. It didn't matter that his father didn't spare him a glance on a normal day, let alone at a gala. It didn't matter if this was going to be his parents last night in Gotham. Tim was five and he was supposed to understand. He was old enough for galas and that in itself was no small achievement!

"Good evening."

Tim turned around only to see a boy slightly taller than him. He looked around Tim's age, a bit older actually, he had pale skin, light brown hair and baby blue eyes. He was wearing a suit similar to Tim's. 

And the boy's hand was outstretched toward him.

It took Tim a moment to realize that he was supposed to shake it.

"Oh, um hi," he said. He cringed internally.

If his mother ever found out that he presented himself that poorly to anyone… he shuddered at the thought of disappointing her.

"I am sorry, this is my first time out," he explained. "My name is Timothy Jackson Drake. May I know yours?"

The boy flashed him a toothy grin and Tim felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, a chill running down his spine. He needed to get away from this boy as fast as possible. Something was eerie about him. 

Like the scary stories the older maids told the newer staff back at home. Like the real ones in the newspapers, the ones about death and those tragedies that had weaved their way deep into Gotham's very being.

Tim wanted to run away as fast as he could. And if he thought about it, his father technically did say he could…. just not directly. He had said for Tim to listen to his instincts. And Tim's instincts were YELLING at him to bolt.

"Armstrong," said the boy. "Ulysses Armstrong. But you can call me Hadrian."

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Hadrian," said Tim. 

He needed to think of an excuse fast, "I have to go find my father. I was supposed to stay with him to learn more about… business heir things."

He immediately took a few steps back and walked in a random direction.

"I didn't say you could leave."

Tim felt goosebumps appear on his arm and resorted to pretending that he didn't hear what the boy had said. He kept walking away from him to actually find his father. 

Something had felt off about the boy. And his intuition was screaming at him to leave immediately. Or he'd end up in REAL trouble.

It took Tim some time to find his father. Luckily enough, the search for his father had calmed his nerves down. So by the time he managed to spot his father, Tim was calm enough to not mess up any of his father's meetings considerably.

Nothing particularly interesting happened afterwards. He ended up listening to the various conversations his father struck up and found himself trying to figure out why his father acted in a certain way with some of the other guests. 

His father told exaggerated stories of his exploits overseas and in different states, that despite the topics not being interesting, he was drawn in. He wished that he was there with his parents whenever they traveled. He wanted to see it all too.

Before he knew it, the gala came to an end and he lost track of his father, who had been exchanging farewells with the other guests.

He felt a wave of wrongness run down his spine. The cold pit in his stomach grew bigger when he heard gasps of horror around him. A gut feeling told him to look up.

His eyes went up to the ceiling only for him to have the horrid realization that the chandelier right above his head seemed to be swaying.

Oh.

It wasn't swaying. 

It was falling. 

----

 ~June 22, 1885~

"...hink he's gonna make it?" 

That voice. The other one had called him… Jason? Right?

Jason? was quieter than before. Was he sad? Tim didn't want him to be sad. Tim wasn't good at helping people be not-sad.

"I don't know Jason."

That one sounded sad too. Why were they both sad? Was it his fault? It had to be. Everything else was.

"I don' want 'im to. He… he's jus'.... jus' little." 

Jason? seemed to struggle with his words a little. It was a good thing his mother wasn't here. She wouldn't have liked Jason. 

"He shouldn'. I's jus.. I…. Ugh… Know what I mean?"

The other one responded after a pause, "Yeah. It's kinda like how I feel everytime you go off on your own, Jay."

Jason scoffed. 

"I know how to take care o' m'self, Dickie."

Dickie? sighed, "Didn' say that you didn't."

There was a pause between them. 

"It's awful," said Jason.

Dickie let out a soft chuckle in response, "I know."

------

—-~September 23, 1883~-—

His eyes couldn't look away from the chandelier. Its jeweled design became clearer and clearer by the second. He couldn't move. He was cold and numb as a whole.

There was a distant scream, a sudden pain in his arm and suddenly his perpetual vision was aligned with the floor.

There was a loud crash from somewhere behind him and for a moment, everything was quiet.

Then the screaming started. It echoed through the room. 

His ears rang. His head hurt. 

People ran all around him. A coppery smell hit his nostrils, ripping its way through the numb, shoving him back into reality. 

He got up and turned around. 

His blood froze. 

For a moment, there was no air in the room. Bile rose up from the depths of his stomach. It couldn't escape since panic had long grabbed ahold of his throat.

There was a crimson liquid spreading on the ground. It was glittering and expanding, almost as if it were making its way toward him. Away from the gruesome floral pattern that had formed before him. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Metal rods stuck out from an unrecognizable mess of cloth and jewels, dripping red. Flesh piked onto iron and bone. Torn from what used to be the body of a woman. 

Arms and legs distorted, broken, practically ripped apart. One shoe dangled from a foot, the other nowhere to be seen. 

Her neck, twisted at an unnatural angle, a curved metal rod pinning it down. Her neat ebony hair set askew. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her soulless gray-blue eyes bore into his. 

Tim forced himself to swallow. This… this wasn't right. It made no sense! The… the human body didn't look like that.

"Mom?" 

Why did he ask for his mother like an unreasonable child? She… she would be disappointed in him for it. 

Maybe she wasn't answering because he asked for her wrong? He knew better than to say something as… as juvenile as 'mom'. That was improper in public. He should've said the proper word.

Tim swallowed, trying to breathe in. Why couldn't he breathe right? Was it because of the copper? It had to be the… the copper. It was the copper, right?

He had to ask her what he was supposed to do, right? Dad… dad said to do what he felt was best. So the best thing to do was to get closer and try again, right?

He walked closer. 

People were still screaming. He ignored them. His mother needed help. Because the human body didn't look like that and… and a doctor could help, right?

The coppery scent got stronger the closer he got. 

It burned his lungs.

"M-Mother?"

He got close enough to touch her face. He flinched.

People… people weren't that cold.

It was the red liquid, right? It was all around her and it was almost near winter! No wonder she was freezing. He needed something to help her warm up. But what?

He tried to ignore the fact that she wasn't blinking. Or breathing.

That his hands were shaking and coated in the red liquid. That the bottom half of his suit was wet and a deep shade of maroon. He… he needed to help his mom. 

"Mama?"

He shook her again, only to stop because it would only serve to hurt her more.

He… he didn't know what to do.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up.

It was his father.

Why was he crying?

It was only then that Tim realized that his own face was wet. When had he started crying?

"Dad," he asked. "Why's mom- mother– I—"

His father wrapped his arms around him. He could feel his father's breath on his neck, the choked sobs making their way in his ear.

Oh.

He numbly realized.

His mother was dead.

His eyes heated up and he felt a warm liquid drip from them.

----

~June 22, 1885~

"Dickie. We gotta get 'im to Doc Leslie," said Jason.

Dickie didn't say anything. 

Jason continued, "We found 'im at night and he's barely got up. I don't think he knows he's babblin' when he is up."

Tim heard a sigh from Dickie, "You're right. I'll carry 'im. You just let 'er know before we bring 'im to her. That way she'd be ready. With whatever supplies she needs to help 'im."

They shouldn't have to. Not for him. He was bothering them too much. Far too much.

Tim tried to apologize, "Am shor'y."

That didn't come out the way he wanted it to. He hadn't meant to be a bother to them. 

There was a pause between the voices. 

"Good idea," said Jason. "You start bringin' 'im slowly. I'll race a'ead."

There was a loud bang immediately followed by a rapid succession of footfalls.

"Well," said Dickie. "It's just you 'n me. I'm gonna pick you up. An' this might hurt a bit. But trust me. It'll be better soon."

Was Dickie talking to him? If he was, Tim didn't mind. If Dickie and Jason had wanted to hurt him, they would've done so already.

Tim felt Dickie slide one of his arms underneath Tim's upper back and the other under his knees. The older boy lifted Tim up.

The world felt as if it tipped over. He was nauseous. Then everything went black.

-----

—-~February 2, 1884~-—

Tim found himself staring at the gate from the second story window. His father had left for a business trip last month. He was coming back today.

It had been about five months since his mother had died. They had held the funeral about a week after she died. By then, he couldn't cry anymore. 

He felt sick to his stomach. There was an emptiness in him.

He couldn't eat meat without seeing flashes of red and white. He couldn't sleep without hearing the screaming because he saw the distorted figure of a blurred out woman again and again. He'd see what happened to her from different angles. He would always live and she would always die.

Sometimes the dream changed, where she would speak to him in a raspy unnatural voice because her torso had been destroyed and her neck had been twisted.

She would always be upset. Berating his lack of manners and the inability to recognize danger when it hit him in the head.

He almost always woke up screaming, his bed wet. Which was embarrassing because he was supposed to be a big boy. He wasn't a baby!

It didn't help that everyone seemed to pity him. He heard the maids whisper about it. The guards as they talked. The staff and their secret conversations. 

He listened when they thought he couldn't hear them. That he was a mess. That… his father was a mess. And that the family business was, too. That the Drakes were loosing money fast.

That rope holding the chandelier was cut. That a young eight years old boy had done it. That it was Tim who was the intended target.

That the older boy with light brown hair, pale skin and baby blue eyes 'hated being ignored'. 

That the funeral was late because it had taken days to separate her body from the metal.

That some people thought that his father had been behind it all.

Tim knew that it wasn't his father who did it. His reaction to his mother's death was genuine. He knew what genuine expressions were supposed to look like. His mother had told him all about them. Everything from how people didn't realize that they gave themselves away in bare fractions of seconds to the way they positioned their feet.

It wasn't surprising that people thought that way, though. His parents had many arguments when his mom was still alive. Especially since his father was the one married into the Drake family and was made to take up the family name.

People said that it was his mother who was the real mastermind behind the Drake family business. That his mother used their marriage to run the business she'd been denied for being a woman. 

That his father had felt inferior to his mother. That he had a secret lover before his marriage.

Tim didn't know what to believe. But he knew for a fact that his mother's death had saddened his father. 

His father had fired all the previous staff that had worked for the Drake family beforehand and hired new workers. He said he couldn't bear to see the old ones because they reminded him too much of who his dead wife was.

He couldn't even look at Tim anymore. Which made Tim feel a whole lot worse. He didn't want to bother his father though. He was already embarrassing him by screaming all night, wetting his bed at night, throwing away meaty foods like a little baby. 

He used to love meat! He wanted to eat meat. But it was starting to get hard because everytime he tried, he'd taste and smell copper instead.

Tim watched as the gate opened. A carriage entered.

Tim supposed that it would be hard for his father to look at him. For people had often remarked that Tim was a lot like his mother. 

That his physical frame was the same as hers when she was a kid. That they shared the same hair and eye colors. The same facial features all the way to their expressions. The same brilliance. 

That he truly inherited everything that made a Drake heir look like a Drake heir.

The old maids said that after her death, it was as if Tim had become a child reincarnation of Janet Drake herself. That he walked without making a sound. That he was as quiet as how she'd been. The way they both presented themselves at any given moment.

Tim couldn't help but wonder if his mother had always felt as empty as he did. If she did, it was no surprise that she was quiet all the time. That her footfalls had no sound to them. Why would they if she'd been scared that any sound she'd make could be potentially life-threatening? 

He made his way to the staircase and walked down to the front door. He had to welcome his father back. It was proper etiquette.

Not that his father seemed to care for it. Ever since his mother died, his father drank his nights away. 

During that time, they had no staff except for the guards, his father left the house a mess. A mess he kept on making Tim clean up.

He hit Tim once. 

At the time both of them had been shocked by it. His father had been apologetic about it. He promised never to do it again.

But then it happened again and again and again. After the third or fifth time it happened, he started blaming Tim for everything. For being too loud or too quiet. For being too much like his mother.

For causing her death.

Tim agreed with him. It was all of his fault that his mother died. 

So he let it happen.

When they had rehired the new staff, at first, all of them would treat him just like their old staff did.

But a month into their jobs, they stopped. Any of his meals that weren't with his father either arrived far too late or not at all. The bowl that was supposed to have warm water for washing his face hadn't been cleaned for weeks, to the point that the water in it had started to stink.

Tim tried telling his father once but he'd been ignored completely. He didn't try again.

The door opened and his father walked in.

The first thing Tim couldn't help but do was to compare how they both looked. His father's eyes were alive. Tim's didn't look like that anymore. His father's skin seemed to glow. Tim knew his own had gone paler. He stopped looking in mirrors a while ago, so it would probably be even paler now. His father was smiling and Tim could no longer do so, genuinely.

It took him a while to realize that his father looked happier. Which, he supposed, was a good thing.

Then a blonde woman walked in.

Tim's eyes widened.

What?

That didn't make any sense. 

Why did his father bring a woman home with him when he was returning from a business trip? 

He racked his head to think of any possibility that didn't point to those rumors he'd heard a while back. 

Maybe she was a guest. Who… was visiting his father for business reasons. 

'Women don't do business', his brain reminded him. His mother was an exception.

The coachman brought in five suitcases inside the house and Tim felt his stomach drop. The hollowness inside of him grew bigger. 

His father had only left with one.

Slowly, inevitably, the pieces put in front of him started to connect in his head, one by one. He hated the conclusion he came up with. 

His father was going to marry this woman. There was far too much evidence for it to be wrong.

His father and her were wearing a matching set of rings. His father hadn't owned any that looked like the one he was wearing at the moment.

His father had spent the past few months drinking away and not caring about their trading business. He'd spent days openly weeping. So much so that his eyes had been constantly red and swollen.

But now he was happier. 

There were old rumors about how he had a secret lover before he got married.

He brought a woman home with him.

He fired all the previous workers. People whose families had worked for the Drake household for generations. Only to rehire new ones a few weeks later. 

There was no one in the manor left to compare Janet and whoever this woman was.

Except Tim.

Who couldn't help but do exactly that.

Because his mother had been a complete polar opposite to how this woman was. His mother had skin as pale as snow, her hair a beautiful raven black and her eyes an intelligent but an incredible storm of gray-blue.

This woman had rosy skin, soft sky blue eyes and light golden hair.

Tim could only stare at his father and his 'wife-to-be'. His father had been smiling. His eyes landed on Tim, and his smile faded a little.

"Ah, Timothy," he said. "This is Dana. We're getting married next month."

Tim couldn't help but blink owlishly at him and Dana.

He completely ignored the disapproving look his father shot him.

"Dana, darling," said his father in the softest tone to have ever left his mouth. "This is my son, Timothy."

The woman, his father's 'wife-to-be', looked at him with a strange, sad look.

'Pity', his brain supplied.

His mother would've never done that. She would've given him a sharp look and some practical life advice to go along with it.

"Oh, Jack," said Ms. Dana. "You never mentioned anything about how small he is. Oh, look at the poor darling! Don't they feed him properly?"

Nothing made any sense.

"His mother was scrawny," said his father nonchalantly, his eyes on Tim. "He gets it from her."

It was then that Tim realized a fact he'd tried his hardest to not believe. Something the new staff caught on to right away. 

His father didn't actually care about him.

He felt the familiar pool of anxiety and panic grow in his stomach, only to mentally slap himself.

His mother wouldn't have cried like a baby. She would've done something about it. He needed to think like her.

What would his mother do in a situation like this one?

Oh.

She'd remind them of their place.

Now, how would he do that?

An idea ran through his head. He could use his father's facial expressions to see how well he was doing.

Tim schooled his face and gave Ms. Dana a sharp toothy grin like he saw his mother do a couple of times before to some of the guests who came to visit during her stay before the gala. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw his father freeze, any color he had drained from his face. He looked as if he'd just seen a ghost. 

Perfect. 

His mother would've been so proud of him. 

Tim turned his attention back to Ms. Dana.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," started Tim. "Miss….?"

An indication to her last name. His father's face turned purple. Tim knew his father knew those pretty well.

Dana on the other hand, was completely oblivious to it. His father also knew he couldn't change her maiden name to anything that wasn't "Drake", or he wouldn't be able to use the Drake family assets.

"Winters," she answered with a smile.

"Ah, yes. Ms. Winters," said Tim, making sure to emphasize what her last name was.

His father glared at him, which Tim completely ignored.

"Well, I wish you and father the best," he said with a smile, while shaking her hand. "I wish to be excused. You see, my mother passed away barely five months from now. I am still grieving. Would you mind?"

The woman, Dana, was visibly startled which made Tim feel bad about having said it, especially since she seemed like a genuinely kind person. She quickly recovered from it, though.

"Of course, sweetie."

Tim turned back around and walked all the way to his room. He opened the door and was about to close it when he heard Dana say, "You told me your wife died last year!"

Tim smiled bitterly. There was going to be a long argument about to ensue downstairs.  

His father deserved every bit of it.

-

"What was that with Dana," asked his father. He was still angry with Tim.

Apparently, Dana had wanted to move their wedding date forward by an extra month to make it as socially appropriate as possible. She was furious because of Tim's father and subsequently, had refused to eat dinner with him or even speak to him until he'd agreed to it.

Tim stared at his father blankly. Was he angry that his "mistress" refused to be around him?

Tim knew that it was ill-advised but he decided to throw a jab at his father, based on everything he'd heard in the past few months, "You should be in bed father. Your 'wife-to-be' is going to wonder where you are."

His father's glare intensified. His voice hardened when he spoke, "I asked you a question boy."

Tim felt angry but he schooled his expression. 

If his father refused to acknowledge that his "deceased wife" had once existed OR that he had never in her life had spoken softly or kindly to her; then Tim refused to let his "bride to be" remain stuck into the fantasy his father was crafting.

And if Tim had to get a little hurt for it, then so be it. And if the only way to make his father angry was to mention his mother, then so be it.

"Why are you getting remarried, when it's barely been five months since Mother died," Tim asked, his every word coated in venom.

He shut his eyes and braced himself. 

Just as he expected, a searing pain bloomed into existence on his face and lasted a moment. Tim felt the familiar heat and stinging that came afterwards.

His father huffed, straightening his clothes, "I never loved your mother."

Tim felt his heart lurch.

And his father continued, "She grew on me like mold."

'Please. Stop it. Please.'

But he didn't say any of that 

But his father wasn't done, "That bitch forced me into it."

Tim ignored the way tears threatened to fall from the corners of his eyes. He tried to ignore the cold that grew underneath his skin. The way his heart sank at the hatred and venom in his father's voice as he talked about Tim's mother.

His father walked towards the room's door, "Don't mention Janet in front of Dana again."

He left Tim's room.

Tim felt his insides turn into ice, unable to stop the frost forming deep within himself. He lay down on his bed.

He wasn't given dinner that night.

—

~June 22, 1885~

Dickie was saying something to a woman. Tim assumed that the woman was 'Doc Leslie' because both Dickie and Jason had been saying something about her before Tim had passed out.

He couldn't make out their conversation because it sounded like gibberish. His ears were still being… kind of terrible.

He was starting to get annoyed with his eyes too. He just wanted to open them without feeling pain.

It was strange, hearing people talk around him but being unable to put a face to their voice. He hated being unable to see.

Because bright light was painful. Trying to talk was painful. Moving was painful. His body had apparently decided that today everything was going to be painful.

Tim was… he was just tired.

He hated how the darkness pulled at his consciousness.

He hated how much control he lacked over it. That as the darkness tugged at his brain, his limbs turned into lumps of stone. That his thoughts were interrupted by a heavy fog.

He still let it take him away.

He was too tired to try and bother to stay awake.

----

—-~February 3, 1884~-—

The next afternoon, when they sat down for lunch with Ms. Winters. 

Ms. Dana asked Tim about the bruise on his face. He'd been expecting it.

So he smiled and told her he tripped over the stairs. He knew that Ms. Dana was aware that he hadn't been anywhere near the stairs yesterday, after initially greeting them. 

His father gave him a slight nod in approval.

Tim smirked internally. His father had a bad habit of marrying women smarter than himself. First, it had been Tim's mother and now, Ms. Dana.

Their lunches were brought out. Tim's face paled at it. Steak.

"Timothy," said his father in warning. "Do try to eat, son. You need meat on those bones."

Tim ignored the non-existent coppery scent. With shaking hands he picked up his utensils.

"Don't forget to say grace," said Ms. Dana. 

Tim risked a glance in her direction. Her eyebrows were scrunched slightly. She was sitting a little more stiff than she had been at the beginning of the conversation. 

Good. 

She was getting suspicious.

"Timothy dear, would you tell me something about your mother?"

Tim knew his father would make him pay for it later, it was something he was counting on. But well, she asked. 

Tim smiled, and in the most innocent and childlike voice he could manage he answered, "Father said not to talk about her in front of you Miss Dana. If you really want to know, we can talk about her later if he says we can. Or we can talk much later."

He giggled as an insurance and whispered loudly for everyone in the room to hear, "It can be our little secret."

He immediately went back to his food, still smiling. He focused on it, cutting the steak. It was hard to do considering that he kept on smelling that non-existing copper. He still had problems with eating meat. 

To an outsider like Ms. Dana, it would probably look as if he was a little kid trying to eat as fast as possible and remember his manners at the same time.

Ms. Dana lost her smile and she looked as if she'd be sick. 

Finally. 

She had figured it out. She had managed to put together the trail of breadcrumbs Tim had left for her.

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart," she said a little too sweetly, failing terribly at acting as if everything was alright. "Your father probably didn't mean it that way. He and I will have a long conversation about it tonight. How about it?"

"Alright," Tim said with an innocent smile.

He didn't know if he should be laughing or be extremely cautious about the world of hurt he was steering in his own direction. But for once, he couldn't care for it.

This wouldn't end well for any of them. 

----

~June 22, 1885~

"Will he be alright," asked Dickie. By his voice, the boy was somewhere close to Tim's right side.

The woman, Doctor Leslie? answered from in front? of him, "He's alright, except for a couple of bruises and scratches. I've already cleaned and made the ointment for them. It's a miracle in itself that he survived in the first place."

"Then why won't he wake up," Jason grumbled from somewhere to Tim's left.

Dr. Leslie sighed, "He's probably exhausted from everything you and Dickie said he's been through. Give the poor lad a day or two. He'll be up and awake by then."

She seemed to hesitate before continuing, "You boys should stay the night at least."

"Yeah, no," said Dickie. "No offense, Doc, but terrible stuff follows us wherever we go and a church isn't gonna stop 'em."

Jason chuckled, "What he said. Stayin' in a church is gonna turn out bad for me 'n Dickie and whoever else is stayin' the night. Thin walls 'n all."

"You boys and your secrets," said Leslie with a sigh.

"Know anyone else with secrets," asked Dickie, intrigued.

Leslie chuckled. She replied fondly, "You could say that."

The silence stretched out for a few minutes before he heard a dull screech against the wooden? floor.

"Well," said Jason. "We best be going."

"We'll come back tomorrow," said Dickie. "It's gettin' late."

Tim secretly hoped they weren't lying. 

----

—-~March 19, 1884~-—

Tim had lost count of the days that had followed his mother's death and subsequently, Ms. Dana's arrival. They all just seemed to blend together with one another. 

It often made Tim wonder if he was still asleep on his bed and having one long nightmare he just couldn't wake up from.

He still couldn't believe that it had been six months since his mother had died. 

Tim supposed that the only "good" thing that happened was that he was starting to feel grateful that Ms. Dana existed. 

For example, the staff didn't outright ignore him like they used to. His room was cleaned regularly again. And the water for washing his face didn't smell anymore, so he assumed it was clean. 

At least, Tim thought it was clean because now the maids just put the water bowl out of his reach. But it was okay, he just climbed up his bed and stretched his arm as far as he could. The corner of the washcloth would touch the water in the bowl. And if Tim waited for just a little bit, the cloth would be wet enough to at least wipe his face properly. 

He even got warm food. In the morning. Everyday. That was nice. Just like before his mother had died.

Both things probably had to do with the time Ms. Dana came to visit him one morning. She was appalled by the lack of food and the smell of the water.

His father and the new staff had gotten an earful from her. 

Tim… he didn't like thinking about that day. His father hadn't been happy with him. Though Tim wasn't sure what he did wrong. He didn't like not knowing why his father got angry at him.

His father no longer hit him anywhere too visible. Which meant that his back was sore most of the time his father was around. 

Lucky enough for Tim, it seemed that his father was busy trying to keep the company he'd neglected, stable as of late.

Today was the day for the Spring Equinox. So of course, there was going to be a gala they'd have to attend. This one was supposed to take place in the Kane Mansion. He wasn't excited about it.

His father intended to introduce Ms. Dana to high society as his fiance. Maybe his father had a fairytale designed about him and Ms. Dana up in his head. 

Tim sighed. His eyes glazed over. He could already see it. It wasn't going to end well for her. Which wasn't something he wanted happening. Ms. Dana was a nice person. She didn't deserve it.

He wished he could warn her. He knew he couldn't though. Not with how his father had forbidden all talk about what happened six months ago.

It wasn't like he could tell her about what would happen during the carriage ride either. His father was going to ride with them.

The maids dressed him up. He hated that he still wanted the touch to last a little longer. Ms. Dana pet his head sometimes. It was nice. But she couldn't do it very often since his father kept her busy most of the time. 

-

The ride went as well as he expected. His father wore a pale yellow suit and Ms. Dana wore a matching creamy yellow gown and jewels to go along with it. His father had talked to Ms. Dana the whole ride and she laughed at whatever he said. 

Tim sat up properly, just like his mother taught him to. He was waiting for Ms. Dana to compliment him. 

His father gripped his cane tightly. He was trying far too hard to forget Tim's mother. And because of it, Tim knew the weight of that cane very well.

Ms. Dana cooed at how much of a proper gentleman he was going to become in the future.

Tim smiled at her.  

"I learned from the best," he replied. 

'My mother did the hiring.'

His father looked surprised and almost pleased with himself. Tim ignored it. 

They arrived.

His father straightened his clothes and got out first. He followed proper etiquette and escorted Ms. Dana out. They immediately started walking toward the front gate. 

Well, at least his partial compliment– if it could be called that– had worked.

The coachman helped Tim out and he walked behind his "parents". He could already feel the looks they were getting. 

Tim sighed internally. He didn't flash the gala smile his mother taught him to. 

He knew better.

His mother had barely died six months ago and she had a lot of friends in high places. She had been friends with the hosts of this gala.

Ms. Dana was going to be humiliated and there was nothing Tim could do but watch it happen. 

He greeted people with the sharp smile his mother taught him to. People kept on saying their sincere condolences and remarked about how much he was like his deceased mother.

Tim smiled and eventually left. He wanted to make sure that whatever happened, he wasn't going to bump into the boy from the last gala.

The boy hadn't been imprisoned because he was just eight. It wasn't fair. Tim was younger when the boy killed his mother.

The second Tim spotted him, he made sure to keep an eye on him from afar, for the whole night.

From the corner of his eye he saw Ms. Dana be surrounded by his mother's old friends.

He ignored it. He had to keep an eye out for Hadri… the boy, who he had just lost in the crowd.

Tim felt a coldness creep into his veins. He looked around the ballroom desperately. 

Someone tapped him on his shoulder. 

Tim froze. 

He felt a familiar chill run down his spine.

"Are you really going to ignore me again?"

Tim hated his luck. Absolutely despised it.

He forced down the panic that was building up, the bile that threatened to come out from the depths of his gut. He ignored the churning in his stomach and turned around.

"Should you really be talking to me after what you did? Especially in front of all of these people," Tim asked. Praying that he came off as arrogant.

Everything stilled for a moment and Tim felt his heart skip a beat.

Hadrian frowned.

A little bit of tension slipped out of his muscles. It worked. It had worked! 

"You've become boring," said the older boy.

Tim gave him a sharp smile, "And it seems as though you have been skipping out on your etiquette lessons.

Annoyance flashed across Hadrian's face, "You sound exactly like my father."

"Well then, I suppose he is doing something right," Tim replied.

The older boy stared into Tim's eyes. Tim refused to back down from such an obvious challenge. He stared right back. A minute or so passed by when Hadrian blinked. And then he smiled. 

It felt like a foreboding omen. That same predatory grin that had made the hair on the back of Tim's neck stand up. 

Hadrian brought out his hand.

"I was wrong. You're still kinda interesting. I'll take my leave now. We'll see each other in a few years, Timothy."

Tim cautiously took his hand and shook it, ignoring the prick he felt on his finger. Hadrian walked away and Tim looked at his hand. There was a small cut on his pinky finger.

He didn't get any time to ponder over it any longer, for Ms. Dana rushed over to him. Her creamy yellow gown had wine spilled on it and bits of fruit tart on it. Her hair was slightly messier than before.

She grabbed his hand. 

"It's time to leave, Timothy," she said. 

Tim nodded, "I'll get my father."

She was sniffing. 

Tim felt guilty. She probably didn't want people to actually see her. It was no wonder she had come to Tim instead of his father.

Tim and Hadrian had been talking in a corner. Tim asked, "Would you like to wait in a separate room?"

Ms. Dana nodded.

Tim led Ms. Dana to an empty waiting room and then rushed off to find his father. He spotted him in the center of the crowd eventually and let him know about it.

He felt tired and woozier for some reason. 

He led his father to Ms. Dana and then suddenly they were on the carriage. Huh. That was fast.

His father seemed angry for some reason. But when wasn't he?  

Why was everything swaying so much in the first place?

His father was saying something. He couldn't make out what it was. He blinked and the world was suddenly turned sideways.  

He heard a high pitched scream. He looked around for the person who was screaming. It was Ms. Dana.

Why was she screaming?  

What was his father yelling about this time… and at the coachman?

Oh. 

Tim realized. He was on the carriage floor. There was something wrong with him.

Everything faded to black.

------

~June 22, 1885~

Tim felt himself shaken awake. He grumbled and lightly swatted the person away. He liked sleeping. Thank you very much.

He heard a woman chuckle and say, "Wake up for a bit, child."

She sounded vaguely familiar. 

"Are you thirsty?"

Suddenly his mouth turned dry. 

Oh God. 

Was the woman a witch? Did she use magic on him?

But witches didn't exist! But then how–?

"You haven't drank a sip of water all day," said the woman. 

Oh. That made sense.

Tim slowly opened his eyes and blinked mutely at the older woman. 

She was a nun. 

An old nun. And that he could barely make out her wrinkly Gotham typical pale skin and brown irises.

Tim took a quick glance at his surroundings. There were a couple of beds lined up near him. All with side tables that had candlesticks or oil lamps nearby.

Okay… so he was in a church.

Wait. Why was he in a church in the middle of night?

He turned to the woman, his face betrayed his question. 

But she simply smiled at him and patted his head tenderly, "Go to sleep, little one."

Despite his curiosity, Tim couldn't help but feel drowsy and wondered for the second time that night if the nun was actually a witch in disguise.

He wondered how that would work. Because she couldn't be both at once. Right?

-----

—-~April 29, 1884~-—

Tim slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was the dull body ache. The second, was that he was fully coherent which in itself was a surprise.

He had drifted in and out of consciousness for what he believed was the past month.

Never fully awake or aware of anything going on around himself.

There was a maid who had been sitting on a chair, in a corner of his room, asleep.  

He felt tired. 

There was nothing else he could feel. The emptiness never really left him anymore. Neither did the hollowness.

He wondered how he could be both empty and hollow and full to the brim with ice at the same time. It didn't make any sense.

Tim sat up on his bed.

The maid stirred from her slumber. She saw him awake and quickly went out of the room.

Moments later, he heard Ms. Dana and his father rush in. He wasn't surprised to see that Ms. Dana looked disheveled. But he was surprised that his father had lost color in his face. And that he looked just as unhealthy as Tim did.

He glanced at the window, only to see light filter through a crack between the curtains.

"Good Morning," said Tim. His voice croaked from disuse. 

Ms. Dana hugged him. Tim felt himself freeze up. He forced himself to relax a little.

His father stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do. 

Tim stared at him. His father stared back. A few moments later his father collected himself and said, "It's good that you've recovered, Timothy." 

Tim nodded at that and said, "I still feel tired. May I go back to sleep?"

"Of course," said his father rather too quickly. He ushered Ms. Dana out of the room.

Tim closed his eyes and let the weariness drag him into sleep.

-

He woke up later that day and snuck around the mansion. He ignored the fever that threatened to creep up on him, warning him of what would occur if he kept on walking about. 

Tim needed to know exactly what happened when he'd been… not very present.

As usual, the best way to find that sort of information were the servants' quarters.

He found that he was not disappointed. 

Apparently, he'd been poisoned. They didn't know who did it— and Tim knew better than to say anything— but they managed to save him on time. Ms. Dana and his father had moved their wedding date forward to May. And that they'd leave for their three month long honeymoon right after their wedding.

Tim didn't know how to feel about it all.

He felt less like a boy. Like he was just a broken, hollow doll.

------

~June 23, 1885~

Tim woke up with a hazy brain and a dull ache in his whole body. 

Not that bad of a feeling to wake up to, all things considered.

There was a slimy sensation on his arms. Why was he…

With a jolt he tried to sit up immediately only to find that he was unable to do so. It was dawn from what he could tell. Where…?

A woman dressed as a nun— 'Doctor Leslie', his brain supplied— ran up to him.

She gently pushed him back down and said, "Settle down, child. You'll be alright."

"Wait," he tried saying. Why was his throat hurting? Where was he? He looked up at her in confusion.

"You've had quite th' nasty shock," she said, sympathetically. "It's no wonder you're sick."

Tim's eyes widened. People actually got sick from getting shocked?! How did that work?

Leslie chuckled then said, "Just get some rest, son. You're probably still tired."

He was pretty tired. Maybe he'd be able to get some sleep without…

------

—-~July 19, 1884~-—

Tim was officially six years old. His mother had died over a year ago. 

The worst part about it all was that she couldn't send him letters anymore. He always loved reading the letters she had sent him. He stored them away as neatly as possible.

He remembered when she first sent a letter for him, he had asked their old butler to have someone craft him a wooden box to store them in.  

When he had, Tim had taken it upon himself to find the perfect candles— candles made with perfectly waterproof wax. 

He had gone into the kitchen very late into the night and used an oil lamp to slowly melt the candles down, their wax dripping in a bowl, taking care to remove all of the threads that came in them. 

He had coated the inside of the box with warm wax and then quickly placed a velvet-ey cloth on top of the wax. He made sure that it covered the top and bottom of the box. 

He had grabbed an extra cloth for insurance and wrapped it around the letter. He ended up placing all of the letters that followed into the same box, the same way.

He stood in front of his mother's grave. He had wanted to visit his mother since he turned six. He had been feeling emotional. He wrote a letter for her.

She would've been against it. What was that thing that she always said? Wrote to him?

'Emotions are irrational,' his brain supplied. 'They make a person more susceptible to manipulation.' 

It was funny in a not funny way. 

' 'Ironic', Timothy. Use your words properly.'

Tim found that to be true. He saw how easy it was for him to twist both Ms. Dana and his father's emotions. His father was easy to anger. Tim reminded himself too much of his deceased wife. Ms. Dana saw him as a hurt child.

Tim stared at the concrete slab before him. His mother's name, her birthdate and her death date stared right back at him. Perhaps it was her advice that had made him bury the letter box with her grave. 

Some part of Tim wondered why his mother left him with those words of all things. 

The sun shone overhead. Dead grass surrounded her grave. It  was pretty hot.

Maybe she said it because she hadn't wanted to acknowledge the truth. That emotions hurt a lot. 

Maybe he'd learn to shut them off somehow. And how to trigger them. In both himself and others.

Ms. Dana was his stepmother now. His father had gotten married to her in May. Tim couldn't attend the wedding. He hadn't fully recovered by then.

He turned back and took a long trek to the mansion.

He shivered.

For some reason, he felt cold all of the time now. Like ice ran through his veins and into his body, instead of blood.

He really needed to work on shutting his emotions off. How to function as if everything was fine but not actually be there mentally. 

That could work.

-----

~June 23, 1885~

He woke up feeling sweaty. 

It was extremely hot outside judging from the amount of sunlight pouring in through the window. So he gathered that it was at least mid-day.

The nun, Doctor? Leslie wasn't nearby. No one was. Well, he couldn't hear anyone or anything move around him. Tim didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

Tim sat up on the bed. What he needed was information. Answers to questions like: how did he end up here? Or: where was he?

'Think,' he told himself. What did he know? What did he remember?

He was returning from a gala with his father and Ms. Dana. Then there was this huge fuzzy-blankspot in his memory. One filled with screaming, illegible sounds and flashes of fast movement. 

Then came the pain and…. The two voices!

He knew their names.

Jason… and Dickie? 

How did he know their names? 

…That last point was irrelevant to his current situation. 

They had to know what had happened to him, right? 

They brought him here. Or at least he thought they did. 

But why? 

He didn't know if he should wait for them to come back or not. Heck, he didn't know if he should wait for "Doctor Leslie" to come back. 

His nanny had read many newspaper articles to him on how some of the most nefarious groups of criminals used disguises and schemes to trick people or kidnap children his age.

Maybe he should look for the two boys. It wasn't like he was in any immediate pain, so getting around wouldn't be too much of a problem. He certainly didn't feel as if he had any life threatening injuries.

Tim experimentally put his feet on the ground. The floor wasn't creaky and his feet felt as if they were buzzing, kind of how they did after a long time without use. But not as worse as they had been when he got bedridden from the—

Nope. He had to focus. He needed to get out of here.

Tim got off of the bed. Vertigo greeted him immediately. He quickly sat down for a moment to let it subside. 

He got up again and looked outside of the window. It gave him a pretty good view on the layout of the church.

Tim could tell that he was on the first story of the church. The window itself was a perfect exit point. It was huge and opened outward so it would be easy for him to get out of.

There was a bit of a gap between the shrubbery and the window, which made for extra cover. No one would be able to spot him immediately from the second story once he was out. 

The problem was crossing the mini-yard that led to the gate. That was the only time he had a real chance of getting caught and Tim wasn't sure that he could run that fast in his current condition. 

He'd just have to risk it then. 

Tim took a deep breath and quickly climbed out of the window. He hid in the bushes and waited. 

There was no sound of footsteps from the room. That felt like a pretty good cue to get out. 

Tim ran across the mini-yard. Luck seemed to be on his side because he was halfway across the yard before there was shuffling from inside of the room he had been staying in. He ignored the sweat trickling down his neck or the burning sensation that was building up in his chest.

He could make it. He would make it to the shrubbery line by the gate. 

Tim pushed himself to run faster, only to realize that his vision was getting blurry. The familiar onset of nausea struck and just as he made it to the gate, he felt himself sway.

He… he forgot to account for dehydration, didn't he?

Tim was really starting to despise passing out.

-------

—-~January 13, 1885~-—

Tim couldn't really tell how much time had passed. Technically, he knew what today's date was. But he couldn't tell what day or date it was. At least not without thinking about it for a long while.

He felt like he was underwater. Or at least what he thought being underwater was supposed to feel like.

He felt like he moved slower than he normally did. That the world around him moved faster than it was supposed to.

He supposed that he and his father were at a strange stalemate. Where they both felt that there was an unrecognizable tension between them. A towering wall in between them. Like an important something that was… missing, if it ever was there at all.

He and his father saw each other at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Only if Ms. Dana was there. 

When she went to visit her relatives or went out for all those parties some random lady from a different house hosted every week, he and his father would eat separately.

He was starting to miss the times when his father hit him. At least it was some sort of human contact. He just… wanted someone to pat his head like his mother once had or hug him like Ms. Dana did sometimes. Or pat his back or even ruffle his hair, like he saw some of the people passing by do to their children. He wondered what that would feel like. 

He had cried when his father dismissed most of the employees that attended to him. He had no one to help him into his clothes. He had to do everything by himself again. He missed the wisp-like contact he made with other people when they brushed past him. He didn't care if his father hit him.

In all fairness, his father dismissed all of the people attending to him, too. He just left everyone attending to Ms. Dana alone.

Tim figured that it was probably because he was slowly losing the Drake family business and didn't want Ms. Dana to know. His father never explicitly said so, but what other reason did he have leaving those attending to Ms. Dana alone?

It was simple. He could see all of the signs around him. Or maybe it was only him who could see them.

They existed in how his father drank whenever Ms. Dana wasn't there. 

The dark bags under his eyes in contrast to his pale skin. He went on business trips less frequently. How quickly he was losing weight. How many of their employees in and outside of the mansion were rushing to resign. How his father banned newspapers from entering the house. How his documents, pens and ink were scattered all around him with his bottles whenever Tim secretly went to get a glimpse of him.

There were always different people who attended to the gardens after every few weeks. He always felt as if there was something off about every room he entered. Like something was missing. Something small. So he'd count the things they owned and in what room they were in all of the time. 

It drove him to pick up his father's papers and lock them away, once. He did it again the next day, even when his father hit him for it. 

For insurance, he locked his room every night, docking a chair against the door handle. 

Scary monsters with looming shadows, grotesque faces, dismembered or disfigured bodies didn't exist. People did. He knew that better than anyone else.

------

~June 23, 1885~

"...found 'im pretty late….behind the bushes….near gate…."

Tim felt as if he was made out of jelly and lead at the same time. He didn't want to open his eyes. Wherever he was, it was too hot. He felt as if he was suffocating.

Was the room humid?

"What was he doin' all the way ov'r there," asked Dickie. He sounded…accusatory?

What was going on? Did something terrible happen?

"I gather he was tryin' to leave," said Doctor Leslie, her tone dry.

Oh…. He had tried to leave to find Jason and Dickie. But… he didn't actually remember actually finding them.

There was a pause in their conversation. 

"Sorry, Doc," said Dickie apologetically. 

"Look here son," said Doctor Leslie with a sigh. "I don't got a clue why the boy tried to leave but I'm willin' to bet that he wanted to find the two of you."

She wasn't wrong. He did want to look for them. 

He wanted to know what happened.

He hoped Ms. Dana and his father were okay.

"So," started Doctor Leslie, "How about both of you stay the night and in the morning, when he wakes, see what he wants. Lord knows how exhausted that boy is."

When neither Dickie or Jason replied, Doctor Leslie sighed once more, "Think it over. There's always gonna be a bed for both of you."

That sounded like they had that conversation more than once before.

"So….," started Jason. "What do ya say?"

"I really don' want to," replied Dickie, his voice troubled.

"Yeah, I know," said Jason. "That's why I asked."

Dickie sighed, "I know. I don' wanna stay but I have a feelin' that if we don't, this lil' genius is gonna try to play his hand at escape artist again."

Jason laughed and said, "I'm more surprised that he did it under Doc's watch. That ain't easy. Heck she's caught me more times than I could count!"

Oh. Tim hadn't realized that it was supposed to be hard. No one was around so he figured it was a good time to leave.

Dickie chuckled and teased, "Jason, I've caught you more times than you could count. It ain't that hard."

Jason snorted, "Please. You got freaky limbs. Normal people don' move like that."

"Yeah, yeah, lil' brother," said Dickie. "I'll keep first watch."

"Oh no," said Jason with a little heat to his tone. "Everytime you say that you don' ever wake me up for my turn! You pull up your self sacrificial bullshit!"

"Any older sibling would do that, Jace," replied Dickie.

"No," Jason deadpanned. "They wouldn't. I get first watch."

Dickie sighed. There was movement and Tim heard a creaky sound to his right and the familiar rustle of sheets.

"Happy," asked Dickie dryly.

Jason didn't reply but from the way Dickie was grumbling, Tim assumed that he must have given him a pretty smug look.

Tim couldn't help but think that they were weird. Dickie had called Jason his brother.

Were all siblings like that? 

He wanted a sibling too.

He wanted a younger brother. That would be nice.

-----

—-~June 21, 1885~-— 

It was summer now. The trees in their garden were bare. The grass, long dead. Tim looked at them wishfully from behind the long rusty iron bars of the gate that had led to the Drake family estate. 

They no longer lived there.

In the span of three months, they had lost all of their property to one of his mother's distant cousins because of his father's newfound gambling addiction, a mountain of debt placed upon them— and his father still hadn't told Ms. Dana what had happened to their business or why they had to move.

He said that the stress was bad for her. Especially since she was pregnant.

Tim didn't know what that meant but he figured it had something to do with how Ms. Dana's stomach seemed to be growing strangely disportionate to the rest of her body. She still wore dresses. But she refused to wear the normal ones.

Ms. Dana didn't know that the business went bankrupt. Or so his father thought.

Despite what his father seemed to think. Tim was pretty sure that Ms. Dana knew what was going on. She wasn't saying anything for his father's sake.

He wondered how his father didn't notice that Ms. Dana didn't attend as many tea parties anymore. Or buy her favorite, slightly expensive dresses like she used to.

Today was the day of the Summer Solstice. Which meant that there would be a gala today. 

One that they were invited to for some reason.

Tim was pretty sure that they weren't invited with good intentions. It didn't make any sense. They lost their business, his ancestral home and were in desperate need of money. 

Tim had heard of what happened to people from a fallen house when they attended a major event. His mother had written to him about it before.

He really didn't want to go to the gala. Something bad always seemed to happen whenever one took place.

But he knew his father was desperate. That he wouldn't care about what would happen to them at the gala. That he would do anything to get his hands on indispensable money.

Tim closed his eyes. 

He didn't know if it was possible to just… disappear.

It was just… he had a terrible feeling about this one. That something would change once and for all. Something incredibly irreversible.

-

Tim had looked at himself in the mirror, earlier that day. 

It was frightening that he looked exactly like how he did one September day, almost two years ago. 

A paired black tuxedo and pants, with a white shirt underneath. That pair of black shoes. 

Except for the fact that he was a little taller now. And the bowtie he was wearing had been straight that night. 

Which was something he couldn't seem to get right. 

Anyone who could get a bowtie to be straight deserved a raise in their pay.

It was no wonder that both sets of their previous staff left.

"Timothy, dear," he heard Ms. Dana say. Tim had turned away from the mirror to face her. She was smiling softly at him. Her golden hair was tied up in a bun. She hadn't changed into the clothes she was going to wear at the gala yet.

She bent down to his level and Tim couldn't help but wonder if her eyes were always that shade of blue. Like the sky on a warm summer day. 

Dana fixed his bowtie.

Tim turned back to the mirror and stared at his reflection. His bowtie was straight now. 

He swallowed, shoving aside the ice that threatened to prickle beneath his skin. 

Why was it hard for him to breathe? Like his chest was caving in on itself. That everytime he breathed there was a faint hint of copper in the air.

He blinked. His head felt strangely foggy. He had a terrible feeling. Something inside of him was screaming, warning him of an unforseen danger. 

"Honey," Ms. Dana started. 

She sounded so far away. Like she belonged to a whole different world. And somehow he felt that it would soon be a truth.

"What's wrong?"

He looked up at her. 

"Ms. Dana," he heard himself say, his voice cracking. "I'm scared."

Oh.

That would make sense, he supposed. 

Ms. Dana had a troubled look on her face. She picked him up and held him close to her chest. He could feel the ice under his skin ebb away, replaced by a warmth he never knew existed.

Thump. 

He could hear her heart beat a mystic rhythm, letting the world know that it was there. 

Thump. 

A song of the living. Inaudible to the mundane.

Thump.

Did everyone's hearts' beat the same way?

Thump.

It was nice. Beautiful for some reason. 

Thump.

Yet… he was scared.

Thump.

Pressure built up in his chest. 

-

They arrived at the gate of the Crowne Mansion in the carriage they had rented. 

Tim greeted the hosts with the smile his mother had taught him specifically for them. He wasn't sure why she had done so. But something changed in their eyes as he did so.

They smiled back and said something about him really being "Janet's" son. He simply accepted the compliment and moved on.

Tim found himself walking over to a corner of the grand ballroom. 

Tim kept his eyes down, unable to focus on the event taking place before him. He could hear the deliberately loud whispers from the guests as they passed by him. 

Whispers about his father. Some about Ms. Dana. The rest were about him.

Tim took a deep breath and let the ice take over.

He allowed the hollowness to creep into his stomach and let the emptiness nestle back into its place. 

The world around him became faster until the only thing he could hear were the whispers.

"Oh my," said a woman talking to a gaggle of her friends. Tim didn't even know her name. 

"Did you see the way that woman looks right now?"

Tim looked at his stepmother from afar. He could see how flustered she looked in a group of women who looked as if they were talking to her.

The conversation near Tim continued, as another lady joined in, "I wager the lunkhead regrets marrying that fopdoodle. Janet was always so uppity but at least she wasn't a complete pinhead. Why did she ever decide to marry one?"

Tim didn't know what a lunkhead was. He didn't know what a "fopdoodle" or a "pinhead" was either. But he assumed it wasn't anything nice.

The women gradually started to talk about other topics as they walked away. He could still hear their giggling as they moved further away from him. 

They were replaced with a group of men barely a few moments later. 

Tim could recognize some of them. He remembered how they used to cower before his mother. 

But she was dead. 

She had been dead for two years now.

All he could do was to stand silently and try to ignore what was going around him.

"Do you see that dulcop over there," said a man, tilting his glass in Tim's father's direction. "He's the 'High and Mighty Jack Drake'."

Another man looked at him in shock, "Surely, not that snoutband!"

The first man laughed, "That's not all! Hear this, 'Drake' was his first wife's maiden name!"

The second man roared into laughter, the group around the two joined in.

"Ah, remember all of that hogwash he used to spit?"

Another man chuckled, "At least he's always had good taste in women."

The group roared into laughter again.

Tim just wished the ground would swallow him whole. The worst was yet to come.

Over the years, Tim had found that he hated it when his mother's warnings were right. This seemed to be no exception. He could hear her voice in his head as she instructed him onwards.

'First, they'll make fun of the women who had the misfortune of marrying into a fallen house. Insulting and degrading their names.'

Ms. Dana's face was beat red and she was on the verge of tears.

'Then, they would take hold of the current head of the family.'  

His father looked forlorn.

'They would make a bumbling fool out of him.'

Defeat oozed from every bit of his posture.

'When all the laughter would come to an end— '

Tim stared at the wine in the glass he held in his hand. He had managed to swipe it right off of a platter when one of the servers had to put it down earlier.

'—the forever bored would need one final burst of amusement—'

He swirled the red, purposely aged liquid inside of it. He didn't know why people considered it a nectar of some sort. He ignored the many pairs of eyes locked onto him. He just kept his on the glass.

'—they would flail around looking for an entertainer—'

He didn't need people telling him that he was nothing more than the stubborn ember of a spark that had been extinguished a long time ago. 

That whatever brilliance they had once claimed he had, only spoke whispers of a legacy now dead.

'—the jester they would choose next, would be the unfortunate heir-to-be.'

He already knew he was a flicker left behind, a forgotten character to a story that had ended a long time ago.

Tim was weary of it all. He knew he was nothing more than an echo to these people. An echo of a ghost of a woman who they had thought was too smart for her own good. 

'One final burst of amusement,' he thought to himself.

That's all they wanted. Someone to make fun of. 

Well then, if he was destined to become a 'jester' for these people, he would do it on his own terms.

Tim was tired. He knew what he had to do.

He smiled and raised the glass in his hand towards the biggest jeweled chandelier. 

For a fraction of a second, he smelled copper and iron. 

He wasn't going to let someone else do it to him.

Tim let the wakeful nothingness take him far away, off to nowhere. His eyes glazed over. He didn't want to be present for this.

He poured the glass over his head.

For a moment, deafening silence rang loud until it was the only thing left in the room.

Laughter echoed in the background and the gala carried on.

--

Tim stared out the window of the carriage. He watched the landscape flicker by him. 

He was sticky all over. 

His father was angry. Tim could tell. His hands were clenched tightly and his eyes were on the ground but for once, he didn't say anything. 

His head was fuzzy.

Ms. Dana was crying.

Tim knew better than to dwell on it. 

Other things. He should think of other things.

He'd be seven next month.

He didn't know why that mattered anymore. He closed his eyes to the rhythm of the carriage as it drove along a particularly bumpy road. It was soothing.  

He felt sleepier with every second that passed.

He felt himself fade away, give into the silent lull of sleep.

BANG.

There was a faint trace of gunpowder in the air, seconds before the horses neighed in fright.

Without warning, the carriage lurched. And they were all yanked upward.

Tim held on to the door tightly, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. 

"Just what does that man think he's doing," exclaimed his father, gripping his cane tightly.

The carriage lurched again. They were forced out of their seats and crashed into one another.

His father opened the small window to yell at the driver, only for his face to go pale.

Tim's eyes widened. 

"Honey," Ms. Dana asked, her voice dripping with fear. "What's wrong?"

Tim could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears. There was only one conclusion that he could come up with.

"Nothing," said his father softly. His voice, a paragon of calmness. He smiled, warmly as if he had been liberated from all of the stress that had plagued him for the better part of two whole years. Perhaps longer than Tim had ever known him.

"It's nothing at all."

He went ahead to hold Ms. Dana, in an effort to comfort her. 

Tim couldn't breathe. Something was horribly wrong.

The carriage lurched one last time and tilted.

Ms. Dana screamed.

The latch on the door Tim had been holding onto, broke. 

The door flew open.

Tim felt his heart race into his throat. 

'Someone shot the driver.'

Nothing else made any sense.

For a moment nothing could pull him down and then he was falling.

Tim crashed into the ground. All he felt was pain.

His ears rang. His heart beat loudly. His body ached.

Then everything went black.

------

~June 24, 1885~

Tim woke up with a gasp. 

The sharp rays of sunlight hurt his eyes, but it didn't feel important anymore.

A morbid realization dawned on him when the last bit of memory slid into place.

They were dead. His father and his stepmother were both dead. 

Tim needed to… He needed to confirm it. Until he knew for sure, they were alive. 

They had to be.

How would he…?

Newspapers!

He needed a newspaper from… from… 

Wait, what was the date today?

If the carriage had crashed last night then it would be in the papers by tomorrow... Right?

It would have to be. His family had once been prolific. And even after they fell— they had still been too prolific, if that gala was anything to go by. 

They wouldn't have been publicly humiliated to the extent they had been at the gala, had they not been well known.

Tim took a deep breath. He needed to calm down and think. 

What did he know? 

He knew that he was in an old church…. in the middle of nowhere. 

Okay, so his memory wasn't helpful. He needed to find out where he was and what was today's date before he decided to do anything else.

Tim tried to get out of the bed only to get caught up in a tangle of sheets and fall flat on his face. 

That was loud. If there was someone close by they'd have definitely heard it. The evidence came in the form of footfalls rushing in his direction. 

Tim untangled himself and looked up at the nun towering over him. 

Her chestnut eyes focused on him. She was… old. The passage of time was etched into her very being. Her light, sandy features were scrunched, exhibiting equal amounts of concern and disapproval.

Other than that, he couldn't get a proper read on her. She was definitely from Gotham. Her pallor gave away that she had probably come from a middle class background at best.

'Leslie', his brain supplied. 'Doctor Leslie.'

Two boys peered at him from behind her. They both looked a few years older than Tim.

The taller of the two was a lanky brunette with hair that marginally ran past his ears. He wore an oversized slate colored cap over his head.

The boy didn't look like he was born or raised in Gotham. His skin seemed as if it was supposed to be a darker neutral color with a rosy tint to it, but it had a hint of an unnatural gray. Tim knew— from the tales his father had shared once— that only travelers or overseas merchants or Southerners had skin tones darker than a light beige. 

The tall, lanky boy's azure eyes observed Tim with a…. curiosity? Worry?

No. 

That didn't make sense. It didn't seem right.

The older boy was too patient. Like he was…. waiting for something to happen, as if he was expecting something from Tim.

Tim didn't know what to make of it. So he focused on the other, shorter boy in the room.

His pallor gave away a possible Gotham background as his skin was technically ivory, yet it had a warm undertone to it. The only other exception was his scarlet hair. 

Two atypical traits for a person with Gotham origins to have. One of his parents probably wasn't from Gotham.

His pallor seemed just as unnaturally pale as the brunette's. He looked younger though rougher somehow. Maybe the way he was clenching his jaw added that effect to his appearance.

He too, wore a large cap— though merlot in color— over his partially long hair that ran past his ears but stopped a bit above his shoulders. 

His cinnamon eyes watched Tim warily. 

'A shabby church in the middle of nowhere.'

'Two possible Gotham residents. One possible foreigner.'

'A nun and two boys— judging from their skin pallor, exposed to the sun but to a minimal extent at best— living on the streets.'

So, Tim was still in Gotham. 

Since he wasn't in restraints and had been given medical attention, the only possibility that remained was that these people were the ones who had found him after the carriage accident.

"Sooo," started the brunette awkwardly. "How are you feeling right now?"

…His voice was strangely familiar. Like Tim was supposed to know who the boy was.

'Dickie,' whispered his subconscious. 

"You weren't tryin'a run off again, were ya," asked the redhead pointedly. That was…

'Jason.'

Tim didn't answer either of them. Though he hoped that he didn't come across as ungrateful for their help by not giving them any answers— especially since they had gone out of their way to help him, even though they weren't obligated to do so— but the information he needed was more important.

"Um, excuse me," he said. 

Doctor Leslie and the two boys stiffened and color drained from their faces immediately.

….Tim hadn't realized that he had said something to prompt a reaction as extreme as theirs. They seemed to be genuinely terrified of something about him.

That wasn't important. He wanted— No, he needed answers. Now.

"Can you tell me exactly how I got here, please?"

----

Chapter Text

Hey, Guys!

 Sorry for not updating for this long. I promise I have a good reason for that.

 So you see, when I started this story I actually had a notebook that I made very specifically for this series. I wrote a majority of world building info, (like character birthdays, names of minor characters that would appear {the rumor that got people not be too suspicious about Dickie's 'street' origins}, Damian's birth, when Bruce acts as Batman, timeline details with other characters, etc.); this notebook also had future chapter outlines and plans for the other books in the series. I also had the next chapter halfway done.

 Uh, I lost the notebook in the ending months of 2022. And my phone acted a bit funky and uh... I lost all of my chapters except for the very first version of the first chapter, an incomplete first version of the second chapter, a bit of the unpublished sixth chapter and half of an outline of an unpublished seventh chapter.

 With it I also lost much of my motivation for writing the rest of the story.

 I got my phone fixed though! (Turns out my phone came with faulty hardware... yeah, I got the company to replace it for free {Thank God for guarantees} (The first time the second or (was it the third?) chapter got deleted should've been my biggest clue 😖! Heck my phone's still acting funky as I'm writing this XD)

 Don't worry though! This is not an author's note about me discontinuing the story! 

 Recently, I reread all your lovely comments and saw the new comics DC is releasing in the OG Gotham by Gaslight verse, read the first three and BOOM! My motivation to write this story came back! 

 So, I'm going to rewrite the whole thing! 

  I feel like I should've explored Dickie just a bit more and wrote at least two more Dickie and Jason chapters before introducing Timmy.

 
 I say that because whenever I attempt to write them, their voices don't really filter out as two separatre characters.

 This became a bigger problem after I wrote Tim's chapter. I assume it's because I wrote +12k in his voice at once and now his character voice is stuck in my head... and I can't separate Dick or Jason from it.

  PLUS, I've gotta rewrite all the world building details and remake the whole timeline... again. 🫠

 So, yeah this story isn't going to be discontinued, but it'll be a while before the next updates. But when I do get to updating the story, it'll be a mass update!

  Once again, I apologize for the inconvenience and the disappointment most of you felt. I get how it feels when an author abandons a story and I'm sorry for putting you all through it.

  Thank you for being patient with me and thank you for your lovely comments! Rereading them really helped me in deciding to get back to writing this fic (all comments even the one from the first version of that chapter that got deleted. It was a sweet comment and I'm upset that with the chapter getting deleted, that comment did too.)

See you at the mass update! Bye for now!

(Should be sometime in December XD)

{I hope 😣}