Chapter Text
He couldn’t complain about being a Drake.
That was one of the first things he learned at school. There were plenty of things to complain about, the weather, the football matches, congress but never his family. Not with outsiders, not with insiders, not even in his own mind.
So all Tim could say was this: Drakes are required by genetic law to attend to their ailing matriarch Bunny Housewiessen-Drake every winter vacation in her twelve acre mansion on the outskirts of Gotham. Whether he enjoyed or hated those trips, he wasn’t allowed to say.
It normally required a seven hour drive with Tim squished between his mother snapping on the phone at her brothers and his father on the phone with what sounded like his brothers but were actually his work associates.
While his mother fought over thirty-thousand dollar heirlooms and his father pretended he was talking about golf Tim made it to the final level of Mortal Kombat on his phone.
The car would normally stop in Gotham Central outside the Four Seasons, while Ambrose and the bellyboys carried their bags to the Presidential Suite Tim would lose the final level so he could start again while his father got a drink at the bar and his mother argued with the concierge about the original artist of the fleur de lis pattern on the curtains.
Ambrose would head back down and from there they’d take the car for another hour’s drive past the grey apartment blocks and glass skyscrapers until they reached Honeywood House where normally, Tim’s paternal grandmother would be waiting for them on the doorstep, either in a wheelchair or leaning against a nursemaid already blurting out her new diagnosis before Ambrose opened the car doors.
Tim would then prepare himself to spend the rest of his holiday driving back and forth between the hotel and Honeywood House squeezed inbetween his parents, every time.
Normally.
But that was then.
Nothing was normal now.
Tim’s mother had driven him, just him, splitting time between barking into a bluetooth and hitting the GPS.
It was a nine hour drive because his mother had made the wrong turning as many times as she’d refused to ask for help from any of the passerbys ogling the Rolls Royce that had reversed and U turned on the same street for the past forty minutes.
Tim didn’t have his phone. She’d threatened to smash it the week before it if he didn’t call his Dad right now what is wrong with you? Why won’t you help me? Tim ended up smashing it himself. They’d driven past the hotel, the bags were haphazardly thrown over each other in the backseat. Tim’s backpack was practically deflated-he’d barely had ten minutes to pack. She’d burst into his room told him they’d been invited, walked out and started the car.
The buildings had faded from grey apartment blocks and glass skyscrapers to seemingly endless rolling hills and green lawn until they’d driven through the gates, past the Leda and the Swan sculpture, past the bushes cut into Benin masks and pulled up at the marble archway where the doors were shut and no one was waiting for them in the driveway.
His mother killed the engine and sat there, the late afternoon sun reflecting off her Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, watching the doors. Tim just looked out the windshield, quiet. There was nothing but Gotham winter sun pooling into the car, lighting the silver accents on the dashboard golden. Ten minutes dribbled by. Tim swallows.
“Mummy, no one’s co-”
“Time to get the bags Timmy.” She grabs her purse from the backseat and begins to rummage through it, her red painted fingernails gleaming against the brown leather. She pulls out her phone then turns to look at Tim who hasn’t moved an inch. “Don’t make me get them myself, that would be terribly unchivalrous.”
Tim sighs and walks out of the car.
He pulls out his mother’s roll on suitcase and his half empty backpack and drags them to the archway.
Bunny’s made some changes: each of the mahogany doors are now carved with the shape of two women, one upright the other upside down, bent around each other like Ouroboros. Like twins in the womb.
Or like they were performing cunnilingus on one another.
With Bunny you never knew what to expect.
He rings the doorbell and realizes they’ve changed that too: Tchaikovsky's Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy has been replaced with Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata. The first one used to drive him crazy, this one was only a step up. His mother’s heels click against the tarmac as she walks up to stand beside him, the pillbox she’d been rummaging for neatly tucked back into the side pocket. Tim didn’t need Superman’s X-Ray vision to know.
There’s another set of footsteps, heavier than his mother’s, soft against the carpet with the practiced ease of someone trying not to be noticed and Tim gives a sigh of relief as the one person in his grandmother’s house he can stand opens the doors.
Nana Milkovich, who Tim had been calling Nan since he was in preschool looks over them with steely indifference in her black and white maid’s uniform. Her eyes bore into Tim and he can feel the scrutiny in her cold gaze, he’s suddenly acutely aware of his eyebags, his shaking hands, his bitten lip-before she turns to face his mother.
“I will call Madam. You wait inside here.” She steps inside and stretches a stubby wrinkled hand towards the drawing room they reserved for visitors. The smile on Tim’s mother’s face slips at the corners.
“Oh Nana don’t be ridiculous.” She steps in and unbuttons her burgundy leather gloves. “We’re not guests. Now where’s Bunny?”
His mother sets off into the house leaving Nan and Tim in her wake. Nan’s eyes appraise him again, another head to toe glance over that leaves Tim feeling like he’s been doused in an ice cold bath then she says:
“Cousins in the game room. Come. Leave bags for Gifford.”
Tim stares down the long hallway. Art lines the spotless white walls, busts of Greek warriors, Masai masks, Aztec fertility dolls, Igbo chief horsewhips, Ancient Persian tea sets, Sanskrit rolls preserved in glass cases, Qing dynasty concubine hair pins, Nepalese prayer flags, a Faberge egg, a Golden Rose from the Pope, all leading to the grand staircase branching off into the two wings of the house. East and West. He knew where Bunny would be, and where his mother was going.
“I’ll just go say hi to Bunny first.”
Nan fixes him with a sharp eyed look. “Leave bags for Gifford.”
“I-I need to go with her.”
“They wait for you, all day.” Tim sincerely doubted that. But even if they had-
“She needs me Nan.” And Tim looks at her, really looks at her.
He’s not allowed to complain about being a Drake. It was one of the first things he learned on the playground, at the dinner table, in the game room while Nana watched over him. They had everything. They lacked for nothing. They were Drakes-and nothing was better than that. Nothing.
Not families where grandmothers don’t invite only their grandsons to their Christmas lodge and snub their mothers. Not families where fathers don’t have affairs with their secretaries. Not even families where fathers don’t send divorce papers through the mail after a twenty week business trip in Thailand with a postcard saying you can keep the kid. They were Drakes. They were perfect. Tim could not use words.
“Please.”
-
By the time Tim has power walked through the east wing and down into the third leisure room his mother is already standing over the couch. Tim can see Bunny’s pale white fingers over her knee from the doorway.
“Nettie,” Bunny’s breathy high pitched voice floats out into the hallway. “This is a surprise.”
Tim strides in and stops next to his mother and pulls the biggest smile he can manage. Bunny Houseweissen-Drake looks up at him from her blue couch. She doesn’t look the same, like every year. This year her cheekbones are a little higher, the lines beside her eyes are gone, Tim sees she can actually move her face when it pulls into one of her usual thin lipped smiles. At least one thing stayed consistent over the past twelve months.
“Timmy.” She stretches out her arms and Tim bends low and lets her pull him into one of the infamous Drake double shoulder pats Bunny called hugs. This close, he can smell her: baby powder, expensive perfume and the sickly sweet scent of elderflower wine. It was 4 o’ clock in the afternoon, if Bunny was getting worse he didn’t want to stick around for the next few weeks to see it. He tried to pull anyway but she keeps her grip on his shoulders, holding him at arm's length.
“You’ve grown so much taller.” Her watery blue eyes roll over his pressed shirt and pastel broad shorts. “Just eat a bit more, then you’ll look like a real Drake. Just like your father.”
“I hope so.” Tim smiles wider.
“Don’t worry I fired that ghastly Indian woman, you know she tried to add milk to my bird's nest soup? The new cook is much better and-” She claps his shoulders. “She knows the recipe for those white chocolate chip brownies you love.”
Tim hadn’t eaten white chocolate chip brownies since he was four years old and even then he’d hated them. “I love her already.”
His grandmother turns away from him and glances at his mother who’s taken off her sunglasses. Janet “Nettie” Jackson sans Drake’s eyes are beautiful robin’s egg blue, ringed with soft dark lashes and scarlet red.
“You haven’t been feeding him, Nettie.” His grandmother cups his cheek, her skin of her palm is cold and smooth. “The poor thing looks like he’s wasting away.”
Tim’s mother laughs, it rings hollow and frighteningly bare in his ears. “You know Timothy has the appetite of a bird-”
“Why don’t you go to the game room and stay with your cousins.” Bunny turns back to him. “They’ve been waiting for you all day.”
It didn’t matter how many times they said it, Tim knew it was bullshit.
“I bet Digsby must have been a handle. He gets so impatient.”
“He really does.” Bunny nods once, the skin on her neck still perfectly smooth and smiles a bit wider. Tim knows a Drake dismissal when he sees one. He glances back at his mother, whose eyes don’t leave Bunny’s still white form.
“Go talk with your cousins Tim, Mummy will be right here when you get back.”
-
Tim almost loses his way twice. The house had undergone renovations over the past year, where the indoor pool was, was now a cinema hall. The east wing third staircase lead into what looked like a laundry room or a sauna and someone had taken down the framed newspaper clippings of Tim and his grandfather from seven years ago.
Tim said someone because the house was crawling with help. Tim said someone because this was probably the only place his father visited less than their house, he said someone because in spite of everything Bunny was still his grandmother and she wouldn’t, she just wouldn’t, how could she? By the time he’s reached the hallway where digitally manufactured gunshots and cries are ringing out his hands are trembling and he feels like he can’t breathe.
He pauses outside the doorway, it’s open just a crack and inside he can see them: the glow of three interconnected flat screens casting their heads in neon green. He takes a deep breath reminds himself he’s a Drake, he’s a Drake dammit and pushes it open.
The room smells like cheese and strawberry cordial, the Drake extended family sits, lies and in Vervainia’s condition prostrates over blue leather couches, virtual reality goggles on or eyes glued to the screen, controllers in hand.
The few tables in the room are stacked with half empty serving plates, platters of grapes, dates, cheese (hence the source of the smell) and bottles that look suspiciously like they came from Great Grandma Pippa’s cellar litter the carpet. Tim narrowly avoids stepping into what looks like a bowl of souvlaki before he throws himself on the closest couch.
No one notices him for a second, then someone in the front couch turns around, turns back to the screen, then whips around again.
“Timmy?!”
Everyone stops playing and starts pulling off their goggles turning to look at him.
“No way.”
“Is that you?”
“Where have you been?”
Someone finally has the sense to switch on the lights, probably Astoria and then Tim can see the whole room of Drake cousins, first, second, third, and twice removed, facing him, all except one, Digsby, who still has his goggles on.
“Welcome back bitch, you didn’t even text me over the summer.” Tim jerks out of the way before Hadwin can punch his right shoulder but only makes it a few inches before Sheridan punches his other one.
The Drake cousins were a part of the Drake family, so they all had nothing to complain about.
Everyone was born with the same thick black hair and bright blue eyes and wiry, gangly figures. It’d be hard to tell the difference between then if not for the Accomplishments Brunch.
Hadwin was a rugby captain at his boarding school and was huge with a gap between his teeth that Bunny was always recommending dentists for. He’d worn braces for almost as long as he’d known him. He’d gotten them off last year, not because they helped, but because his parents had kind of gave up.
Sheridan was student council president at the same boarding school Hadwin was in and often joked he was glad Hadwin was into sports otherwise he’d have lost. He’d gotten a National debate award and was trying to get the Harry S Truman Scholarship. He’d once worn a bra they stole from the staff’s quarters over his eyes and called himself the Mantis Man.
Vervania was a debutante at the Waldrof-Astoria, she’d been accepted into Bryn Mawr but dropped out when she found out it was all girls. She had an internship with Vogue Italia and Tim had kissed her once under the table in the dining room because she asked him to.
Astoria was a nationally recognized horserider who once ate the stuffing out of the soft part of a badminton shuttle.
Tipper was a water polo champion who cried for two hours when Hadwin and Vervainia dyed her hair pink while she slept one christmas.
Winthrop had made his own modern art museum and once peed in the indoor pool. Hayes was getting a masters degree in History at John Hopkins and fell into his own birthday cake when he tried to blow out the candles. Pippa II was going to be a dog breeder and failed her driving test seven times. Biff was in the junior olympics but was scared of rabbits. Everyone was here, what they had been, what they would be, what they could be all laid out in their smiles. Almost everyone.
Digsby, aspiring stockbroker who Tim had once dared to eat a worm when they were five still jabbed at his controller, goggles on.
Hadwin crawled over the couch and punched his arm. “Timmy’s here man!”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah right.” Digsby pulled his goggles up to his forehead, his face red where it had left marks. “Like I’d show my face after-”
He turned and spotted Tim and froze.
There were many different ways to deal with this situation. Tim could walk out the double doors. Tim could break down and cry. Tim could walk out the double doors and then break down and cry. Tim could walk out the double doors and walk in front of the next moving car. But he was a Drake. Drakes had everything. And Digsby was a Drake too.
“Long time no see, Timmers,” His smile was lazy, a scar still over his lip from when Winthrop had thrown a stick at him. “I saw you at the lacrosse playoffs.”
Digby’s school and his were rivals. He’d seen the lacrosse match from the sidelines writing down basic info for the school magazine. He doesn’t mention that Digsby had seen him and walked past him like he was transparent.
“You did good, sport.”
“Little too good, asshole ripped his tendons.” Hadwin tucks his arms behind his head. “He’s benched for the rest of his life.”
“Till the end of the summer you ass,” Digsby throws a pillow, it would have hit anyone else smack dab in the face if Hadwin wasn’t so good at catching. “How’s your year been Tim? Octavia Bryers-Wallace is in your class, she said you got made president of the school newspaper but turned it down.”
“Something like that.” Something like that, Tim had actually taken the surprise award on stage, waved to everyone, got off stage and walked straight to the bathroom, cried for twenty minutes, thought about killing himself, tried to kill himself, got sent to an office where he was told he needed two parents to sign a paper to stop him from killing himself and positions like newspaper president were too stressful right now.
“The fuck is wrong with you? If I was made head of student newspaper I’d be snapping that up. Hell I’d make myself a special uniform, get myself in with the creative types.” Hadwin waggled his eyebrows.
“Scientists do say the left side of you brain is more creative than the right side, it probably extends to your hands as well.” Hayes said.
“Ooooh.” Tim hissed.
“You’re just jealous cause all the medical girls are too busy studying to poke your micropenis.” Hadwin smirked.
“If medical boys are available I’m game.” Vervainia waved her phone in the air. “I’m looking for a nice young doctor to take care of me that I can divorce two weeks later with half his cash.”
Hadwin burst out laughing till Sheridan punched his arm. The room was deadly quiet. No one was looking at Tim. Which was somehow worse than everyone looking at him. Don’t break, don’t break, don’t you dare, You are a Drake-
“I think I’ll go help myself to some of the new cook’s goods.” Tim rose to his feet and kicked a stray bowl. “Judging by the petri dishes you’re growing in here, it looks like it was delicious before three weeks of rot.”
“You better come back bro.” Winthrop calls after him. “I gotta kick your ass at COD.”
“You bet.” Tim shut the door behind him, and walked quickly towards the left wing where the entrance to the house would be. Where his Mother probably was, leaning on the door of the car her skin doing that splotchy thing when she was trying not to cry, where his backpack was filled with nothing but two books and a change of underwear because Tim had looked around his room at all the awards and designer socks and dry cleaned suits and it hadn’t mattered not a single fucking thing had mattered-
He wasn’t fast enough.
“Why the hell did you have to go and say that V?” Hadwin’s voice grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him into a chokehold.
“How else was he going to leave?”
-
“Did you see all your cousins?” His mother’s voice was cheery when he tapped against the glass of the car. When he opened the door the air conditioning was on full blast even though it was cold outside.
“Yeah.”
“Even Hayes? You’d think he’d study over the holidays, honestly what are his parents thinking.” She shook her head. “Well, anyway, I’ve decided I hate the air around this place.”
“The air?”
“Why yes Bunny’s gone and added essential oils through the house vents. Lavender, ghastly thing, works up my allergies, it's best I stay in a hotel.” Her sunglasses were on. Tim couldn’t see her eyes. It was frightening. “Oh come on now you’ll be fine without me. I won’t be here forever Timmy.”
It’s not me I’m worried about, Tim doesn’t say.
“I don’t mind staying with you. We can look at the art museums in town, go to that French Cafe off main street that you like, heck Batman’s here I bet we can find some place where they’ll have a video or do reenactments. We can buy Christmas lights from the shop across the street, buy a tree. C’mon Mummy it’ll be fun.” We can not be Drakes. It doesn’t matter because you’re legally no longer a Drake anyway. I can take your last name, we can drink hot chocolate and be a real family, like, like-
“And miss out on the beautiful holiday parties your grandmother plans? Don’t be ridiculous Tim. I hope you packed your swimsuit in there. I expect you’ll be sensible and only swim in the indoor pool, I’m not coming back here and finding you with a cold.”
Tim’s hands are beginning to shake. “Mummy-”
“Timothy. You will go inside and unpack your bags.” Her voice is hard. “And you will pull yourself together. You’re a Drake not a faggot.”
“Mummy-” The car rumbles to life, the door handles flat showing they were locked. Tim hadn’t even noticed she’d locked them.
“Say hello to your father for me if you get the chance.”
-
“I keep room for you.” Nan turned on the lights. It was just the way Tim remembered it: the double bed with car printed bedsheets, the Einstein mug that held all his screwdrivers on the shelf, the sliding doors opening to the balcony overlooking the golf course.
“Madam want renovate but I say you like it like this.” Nan kept her hands behind her back.”
Tim walked into the room slowly.
There was no dust or cobwebs or any markers of time passed, it was just as he had left it. Even his basketball was still here, perched on top the bookshelf Tim had painstakingly arranged topic by topic with Hayes, philosophy, engineering, biomedical.
He ran his fingers along the bedsheets and pulled them to his nose. It smelled like patchouli and detergent, it smelled like welcome.
“Thank you Nan.”
“Dinner is in hour in west dining room. You and cousins eat together Madam says.”
Tim sighs. “Guests or-”
“No guest.”
Tim swallows. No guests. No distractions. Just that long oak table and Bunny on the end of it and eyes watching him, watching him from every seat, devouring him where was Mummy, was she ok, was she at the hotel already, was her card declined again, was she in the bathtub, was she swallowing too, swallowing pills-
“Is the shower basket the same? I really hope she replaced the lotion, I smelled like a garden for weeks, it was terribly unmanly.”
“Gel is same. Look under shelf in shower.” Nan nods, a single robotic jerk then walks out.
Tim waits till the door shuts behind her. He looks for the tightest corner in the room, the right one next to the bed, he walks over to it then slides down against the wall and stares up at the ceiling.