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Tim knows why this is happening.
Tim is a part of the two percent of the world's population that are descendants of mythical shifters, derived from a heavily protected and extremely rare kind of bloodline. His mother was a snake shifter and a descendant of a dragon shifter, his father a hawk shifter and a descendant of a phoenix shifter, so there's no way he couldn't be special.
That's how they met, after all. An arranged marriage, as most of the protected bloodlines have done for hundreds of years. Not a happy marriage, but then again, it was never supposed to be. They met one year before their wedding to go on plenty of public dates and interviews and to have a grand engagement party between the ever-famous Janet and Jack Drake. They made Tim, a hawk with mythical blood. They're powerful in the food chain and in modern society, and one day, he will meet his wife and he will marvel at her bloodline because she, too, will be special.
Well, the last part is assuming he makes it out of this whole ordeal alive.
He thinks he will. He thinks that after the viewing, he'll be taken to his new home. He thinks he'll live a life of training, of threatening without roaring, of being the incentive in somebody else's alleyway deal. Or maybe he'll become a looming shadow, a pet with a head to scratch while you look your business partner in the eye and dare them. He could become an enforcer that shatters through windows and conquers small nations.
Tim hopes he'll be taken to his fate soon. This is the night of auctioning, but the twentieth night of captivity. A Friday night in a sharply cold February month. He's been fed steak and the like, the sellers trying to fatten him up before show time. He remembers his mother making him watch the videos of different auctions and read the graphic articles to show him how lucky he was that he wasn't in that position.
Now her and his father are dead. He felt their pack bonds, although weak, he felt them break. It hurt. It destroyed him. He was in the middle of a beating, and mournfully keened when he felt it. It was worse than his bones breaking because it felt like someone took a hammer to his heart and a lit match to his paper soul.
Tim's curled up against the corner of the cage that's placed on a stage. The curtains are closed, graciously hiding him away. He's human for now, ragged clothes distanced from his actual skin. The clothes used to be an expensive suit he was shoved into, though when he complained it was too tight, he didn't mean this. They took off his shoes and his socks, the soles of his feet slashed up during his beatings.
Tim wouldn't have been able to run, anyways. The cuffs on his wrists and ankles, chaining him to the ground, they cut off circulation. The bars are silver-coated steel and the chains weigh more than the body they're wrapped around. He's woozy from the starvation and the dehydration and the blood loss.
The worst thing, though, was when they forced him to shift. See, his parents were cruel, using their dust-collecting pack bonds to make him shift when he tried to defy them in his primal form, but they weren't ever cruel enough to truly force, and there's only one way how to do just that. It's a drug, one condemned by many but not by all. The cruelest can sometimes refuse it's use under their watch. It's awful. It seeps into your bones, cracking them one by one, every vertebrae twisting unnaturally, every piece of skin stretching like strained rubber bands, every nerve in your body screaming while on fire, all until you finally shift, and by then, you wish you were dead.
It was yesterday that the drug drained it's last drop from his body. That was when they recorded the video for the previews. The camera turned off, and for a while, Tim stayed curled up, dimming wings tucked against his body while he buried his beak under his talons. He shivered, the cold breeze blowing the feathers that fell off into the corner. As a bird, the pain was less, and his thoughts were less, and less coherent when or if he had them. They threatened the drug again if he didn't shift back, so he did.
He lays in the corner of his cage, a curled up and an awaiting prey. He can hear them shuffling into the theater after intermission, with the lower-priced paintings and weapons being sold for a few thousand. They clatter excitedly, murmuring and whispering. Their words filter in like white noise through his clogged ears and into his muggy mind. His tears have dried and stained after mixing with the blood and the mud.
"And now," Bass's voice booms through the theater, silencing the side-talk. When Bass was handling Tim, he never had a commanding voice, he had a cruel voice that was sharp and pricking you not enough to draw blood but painful enough to be a threat. "for the moment you have all been waiting for."
The curtains pull open and Tim wants to go back to sleep. He wants to fall into a deep sleep, one a rescue team has to pull him out of after prying his cold hands from his sunken bed. He'd rather be in the deepest parts of the ocean because it would be easier to breathe down there in the dark than here, in the spotlight, his bruises and welts and blood and sheer weakness revealed to hungry, searching eyes.
He sees and hears the gossip ensue and the way they gasp with greed and awe rather than hysteria or trepidation. Their hands fly to their wallets and not their mouths. They look to each other and ask if he would be a fine investment. They scan his body for his defining features, eyes passing over his gaping wounds and shivering, shaking, frail figure.
But he keeps his eyes open, and he keeps them dry.
"See, this fine specimen is not only a dragon descendent, but a phoenix descendent. His eyes are golden and I've seen his wings light up." A wave of awed murmurs hits the crowd. Bass laughs, nodding in agreement. "I didn't believe it myself. But then it lit up like the sky,” Bass gasps dramatically and strides forward as if pointing to the sky. Tim has to admit that the act is entertaining, especially since Tim can’t remember if he did light up or not, the haze of pain all too strong. “And I believed everything.”
”So,” he clasps his hands together, “bidding begins at fifty-thousand.”
”Sixty-thousand!” raises Ms. Chesapeake, the woman who invited the Drakes over for Christmas every year, despite their attendance never occurring.
”Eighty-thousand!” counters Aiden Blake, whose son shared seven out of eight classes with Tim in the seventh grade.
”Eighty-five!” The numbers go up and up and up, each one heftier than the last, each one from someone who met Tim when he was only a toddler now bidding for his possession. Tim keeps his head bowed, pressed into his knees, because he doesn't want to see them, the familiar faces. Each familiar face, each greedy smile that was once warm and welcoming as he went into their homes, it shatters his heart.
Tim curls his hands around his shins, clutching them so tightly as if they'd fall off and leave him because they wouldn't be the first part of him to do so. He only has himself now, he knows that. He's always only had himself. That's okay, he's used to it. He thrives when he's alone. He's learned how to. Even through what happens next, even if he's beaten everyday or forced to — to — no. He can get through it. He will, he has to.
He has to.
This is an underground theatre, an underground auction. It's not underground that only common thugs know about it, but it's a societal secret. It's not something one brings a plus-one to and when asked, you simply say you're going out. You don't say where, and it's only by invitation. Only two individuals or families are added to the invitation list a year. It's an opportunistic auction, and the invitations went out last week. Schedules were cleared for this and meetings were moved so that people could come.
It makes sense he knows some faces. It does. It’s logical that not everyone can be Batman, fighting crime and saving everyone in the world every night of every day. He takes comfort in those memories, of watching from a fire escape while Nightwing soars over rooftops, of being perched on a window shutter while Batgirl and Robin take down twenty men, of finding the best hiding places to watch as Batman shows criminals what true fear is, all while delivering justice.
Tim's best picture is of Batman, face hidden in his hand while Nightwing claps him on the shoulder, Robin throwing his head back in laughter, and Batgirl snickering as she zip-ties a thug's hands together. The picture was perfect. Some part of Tim wonders what it would've been like if he had added himself into the picture, but he knows it's better off how it is. He'll treasure the picture — all of the pictures and all of the moments he watched — clinging to them wherever he goes and for however long he may live. They're safe.
He smiles to himself.
The smile disappears when Andrew Goldsberg stands up. A real piece of work with shoes shined more than his blinding teeth. He scoffs, his trademark noise, and draws the room's attention.
Bass's gaze, which was roaming the room, freezes and hardens at the sight of good ol' gutsy Goldsberg speaking out yet again. Whispers travel through the room. "Andrew!" Bass all-too-cheerily greets. "And what would be your complaint this time?"
Andrew's smug smirk spreads wider. He takes a step out into the isle, turning himself to be turned towards both the stage and the crowd. He looks at Tim, but Tim refuses to meet his gaze, staring pointedly at the ground. Andrew scoffs loudly. "Well, if I'm complaining, it's always for a damn good reason. Like that lion cub sold last March. Cobblepot says the the thing was just a big-ass leapord! And the cobra Isenberg bought was a damn rattlesnake! It's all bullshit!"
Andrew turns to the stage, waiting for a moment to draw out the rising shouts. "And we're supposed to believe the thing onstage is actually a descendent of a phoenix and a dragon?! It could be a pigeon for all we know! It's probably not even special! Why are we bidding for it?”
People begin to agree, with Andrew's friends rising in their seats to help raise the riot. Bass looks to Tim, who's mixed between relief and sheer terror, keeping his head down and his form human. If the deal goes wrong or doesn't go at all then maybe — maybe Tim won't be subjected to a terrible fate, and he can stay here, or have — no he'll probably — either way he's dead. His face settles on defeated indifference, and his heart along with it.
Bass clears his throat; a guard readies a gun to fire into the ceiling. Bass shakes his head and turns to the crowd. "Alright!" He shouts at the top of his cigarette-lungs. The crowd turns to him, and a guard sits Andrew and his friends back down. "Alright. I get it. But, you see," the tone switches to a cruel amusement and Tim freezes because he knows that tone. His body phantom-aches at that tone. "this one, this one it's — it's a little defiant. Never shifts when told to, if I'm being honest. It is magical, trust me, but if we want it to prove what we're telling you all then . . . then the price is raised!"
Clamors arise but Bass shakes his head, having to yell over the crowd once more. "An extra hundred for a year's supply of Chemical F!" Chemical F, the thing that forces shifts. Chemical F, the thing Tim would rather die than have used upon him. Tim whimpers, scrambling to the far corner of his cage, ignoring his injuries and the loud noise he makes. "And we will start with a demonstration."
No.
Tim's cage is approached by a burly guard. He wants to scream but he can't breathe or talk as he tries to slam himself against the bars in a feeble attempt to break them, his shoulders screaming at the act, his dignity draining but the shouts from the crowd are rising and someone throws an apple at the cage and others begin to throw what they can as the lock is opened.
The guard reaches in but Tim pulls all of his limbs and his flesh and fingernails and bones to his chest but the man's arms are long, they're long and they stretch and the needle on the syringe is like a sword. Tim won't survive and in his final moments, he holds back his tears because he will not cry in front of these assholes.
The shouting becomes louder and rowdier, with more items soaring through the air and hitting the sides of his cage. The bars rattle and clang, clanging so loud, too loud and he feels it in his bones or — or what's left of them and he — he can't — he can't breathe when his foot is grabbed and he screams as he's dragged towards the man, the needle raising to plummet down so he braces himself for it and he just wants to die and —
“Eight hundred thousand!” a voice roars over the raucous crowd, like thunder crashing over, silencing them in an instant. From the back of the theater strides forward a man in a sharp black tuxedo with a jawline even sharper. He’s as tall as a tree and sturdier than the greatest one. His walk is powerful and his stare even more. He plants himself in front of the front row, his back blocking their view as he stares up at Bass, his stare dark and captivating and capturing. “Eight hundred thousand,” repeats Bruce Wayne, “and a hundred to destroy that syringe.”
The voice was booming and the offer even more powerful. Bass goes quiet and the guard pauses. There's a moment that Tim isn't breathing, the needle still hovering over his skin, almost penetrating — "I said," Mr. Wayne says, his voice deep and undeniably dark, "eight-hundred thousand. I'm assuming the last part was heard and I don't have to repeat myself."
Instantly, no one in the room wants Mr. Wayne to repeat himself.
Bass thickly swallows, snapping at the guard who retracts his arm and locks the cage back up. Tim breathes again, though keeps his body curled up. Although it's useless, Bass asks, "Anyone for eight-fifty? Nine?" The room holds their tongues. "Okay! Going once! Go — going twice! And sold to Mr. Bruce Wayne!"
And Tim’s heart shatters.
After that, he remembers the curtains closing quite metaphorically. As he sunk into a fuzzy haze, he was dragged off of the stage, the cage carried by just two men. They spoke, rattled the cage, shouted degrading comments at him, but he didn't hear them, their words white noise. He sat in a back room while people picked up their paintings and vases and other items that were auctioned, never paying him mind. Or maybe they did.
The tension in his body released and he sprawled against the corner of the cage. They strapped a metal collar around his neck and chains around his ankles and wrists. He might've cried. He didn't fall asleep, and the blinding lights didn't help with his want to do so. Actions and words and sounds and sights were indistinguishable. It was like being in a warm cloud that fit around him like comfortable clothing.
Comfortable clothing. His parents never let him have any fuzzy hoodies or pants. Maybe if he's good for Mr. Wayne, he can have some? He'd like an oversized shirt. If he has a uniform most of the time, then maybe if he doesn't complain too much, he can bargain for a pair of sweatpants. He's always wanted a heavy blanket, or at least a really fluffy pillow. He can imagine a soft item if he never gets one. He can work with his own mind.
He can —
Something's poking him. He startles, rubbing his side which seemed to be bleeding. A spear was poking him. Has it been doing that for a while? It's not like touch has brought him back before. The sharp touches and slaps never work. First time he's been poked, though. But he doesn't think that's what brought him back. It was a feeling of danger.
So maybe he should slip back to the cloud. But as he begins to drift, his eyes sluggishly narrow in on a figure. The figure is big and kneeling outside of his cage door — the door is open. Then . . . then is Tim leaving? But Tim would only be leaving with Mr. Wayne.
Oh, the figure is Mr. Wayne. Tim shrinks into himself, wanting to slip back under but having an equally powerful need to know what's going on. Mr. Wayne is kneeling in front of the cage, sitting down crisscross, patient. He's wider than the opening of the cage, or at least his shoulders are. Tim is scared for the beatings to come. There's a figure escorting a guard out of the room, a taller one with black hair but a little smaller than Mr. Wayne.
Once Tim makes eye contact with Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne's lips twitch. Tim looks down, not wanting to see another cruel smile. "Hi, Tim." Tim stays quiet. He keeps his head down. He curls further into himself. "Are you hurt?" Tim bites down onto his tongue, nails ripping his pants when they tighten their grip. "Bass mentioned he hadn't fed you in a few days. I have some food in my car that I'd be more than happy to share with you." Tim shuts his watering mouth so tightly his lips disappear. "I don't think it'll be convenient to take the entire cage, so how about you let me unlock your chains and you can get out of there? I don't reckon it's comfortable, anyways."
No, Mr. Wayne, it's not. But it feels safe. So he curls even tighter, forearms pressing into shattered ribs, his slashed feet dragging to meet his thighs, while he hunches dislocated shoulders farther than ever before. But he turns his chin completely so his face buries in his knees, only his eyes looking up to stare into the bitter soul of his new owner.
Tim just stares, even glares. He will not look away first — he won’t. Mr. Wayne stares back, the room tensely quiet. Bruce shifts, Tim does not. He knows they’ll have to move eventually, and Tim would rather not be dragged, but he also doesn’t want to not go out screaming. But the pain — can he take it?
Mr. Wayne looks down, before looking back up. His gaze is searching and rounded around the edges, softened almost. “Please,” he says, near whisper, “I won’t hurt you, and I have food, but I need you to get out of there before I can really help you.”
I won't hurt you. What does that mean? Does that mean he'll be gentle? Does that mean that if Tim is good, then Tim can get a blanket in the winter? Does it mean Tim will be fed properly or be able to shower or speak? Or does it mean that if Tim comes out now, he won't be hurt later?
Tim, keeping his eyes on Mr. Wayne, uncurls one leg. He flinches when it stretches the whole way out, the rags he's wearing as pants riding up to his knee. The chains stretch as far as they can before they tug on both ankles. He sucks in a sharp breath. He inhales slowly, exhaling when he stretches his other leg out, the chains relaxing. Mr. Wayne's face doesn't twitch, staying a patient calm. Tim finds it in him to uncurl a hand, quickly slapping it down onto his chest, as far as the chained handcuffs will allow. The only thing left is to remove his other hand, but bile rises in his throat at the thought of it. His bottom lip quivers and he finally takes his gaze off to look at his hand. He really, really doesn't want to do it. His hand is stuck and his eyes are stinging.
But Mr. Wayne could easily rip him off.
It's better to do it of Tim's own volition. He will keep that free will. He will take an option and choose it and he'll be able to make the choices he's given. But . . . still. He looks fearfully to Mr. Wayne, and suddenly the cage is where he wants to be. He knows he can't. He'll throw away the blankets to stay in this cage. But the blankets — he needs to make a good first impression or he won't be able to cling to anything, not even his sanity.
Tim inches forward and Mr. Wayne stands up, clearing the way. Tim is crawling and he sees the hand offered out but he's already crawled so he ignores it. He steps a foot over the cage, still on his butt. He goes to stand up, but as soon as he puts pressure on it, his beatings come back to bite him. He cries out and falls forward, plummeting towards the ground and bracing.
Mr. Wayne catches him, hands clamping under the boy's armpits. Tim freezes but he leans into the touch. "Tim, can you walk?" Tim gives a small shake of his head. "Then may I carry you?"
Objecting is futile. Mr. Wayne scoops an arm under Tim's leg and another under Tim's back. The younger man walks up, face softening when he sees Tim. He drapes a heavy jacket over Tim's body, helping to secure it around him, tucking him in like Tim has seen parents on tv do with their kids. It covers the chains and collar. The younger man — who bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Wayne — smiles warmly at Tim, but turns away to open the door.
Tim knows they're going outside of the quiet room so he burrows into Mr. Wayne's chest. In a strange way, he's comforted. He leans into the touch, hiding his face deep in an expensive suit, careful not to cry. The arms, so big and strong, wrapped around Tim of all creatures, they feel like heaven. They're like the blanket he's wanted and the protection he's sought out. They make him feel safe and make the itching on his skin lessen. He's comforted by his vulnerable body being covered, by the ability to sink into a hidey hole, closed off on all sides. He'll take the comfort for now, revel in it, savor it.
They exit through a back entrance. The cool, fresh outdoors hits his face and he gasps, raising his head to meet it. He opens his eyes, staring up at the indescribably gorgeous night sky, and the stars that decorate it. The moon shines for him, calling for him, whispering to him. He cries at the breeze, the part of him that's a bird longing to shift and fly. Oh how he wants to fly. He wants to fly more than he wants to breathe or eat.
They approach a car. An elderly man is waiting by it. He's a butler. He glances up when Mr. Wayne, the younger man, and Tim approach the sleek black car. "My word, Master Bruce. What have you been up to tonight?"
Mr. Wayne chuckles a little, the noise rumbling through his chest and through Tim's head, which was pressed up against it. "Alfred, this is Tim. He's going to be staying with us. Tim, this is Alfred. He's very important to me and I imagine he'll become very important to you."
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Alfred," whispers Tim, almost inaudible. His voice is shaking and it breaks embarrassingly, scratchy and hoarse. He sounds pitiful. He feels pitiful. Glances are exchanged over his head, nonverbal conversations he equally parts wants and doesn't want to hear.
Mr. Alfred opens the door, and Mr. Wayne scoots inside, clutching Tim closer so he doesn't try to escape. The younger man follows, closing the car door as if they can't get away from the auction fast enough. Mr. Alfred starts the car as if he can't get away from the auction fast enough, with Mr. Wayne placing Tim in the middle of himself and the younger man. With the jacket still around him, the seatbelt is secured around Tim, with the two men on either side of him to keep him from jostling too much.
Tim tries to lean backwards, but it takes his strength to not lean to the side, to not lean onto Mr. Wayne. Once the auction theatre is out of view, Mr. Wayne turns to Tim. Tim inhales sharply, the jacket becoming constricting. "Tim," Mr. Wayne says slowly, "I am truly and deeply sorry for what you have endured these past few weeks. It must've been awful and I cannot begin to imagine what it was like."
"Thank you," says Tim, though quietly and with his eyes on the floor of the car. He swallows, and he knows he shouldn't speak, but he's been spoken to already and he really wants to know. "What am I going to be doing for you?"
"Nothing."
"I don't believe you," he whispers to no one but himself, biting down onto his tongue and tensing, bracing for a hit he won't be able to recoil from.
A silence passes over, where the only sound in the car is Tim's heavy breathing.
Mr. Wayne sighs. "I regret I have given you reason to think I'm your new owner."
Tim looks up at Mr. Wayne with a sharper stare than before. "You bought me. I'm nine but — but I know what that means. I'm okay with it, really." He may be trying to convince Mr. Wayne or himself, or maybe both. He's okay. This is just — it's his life now. He can make do with it.
Mr. Wayne shakes his head. "You shouldn't be. I want you to know that I did not buy you to use you in any way." Tim gives a hesitant curious and confused look. "See, a few weeks ago, when I received the . . . the invitation," Mr. Wayne's voice drops darker for a moment that clears when he clears his throat. "I was approached by Commissioner Gordon. Tonight was all apart of a plan to shut down this organization's operations, but it wasn't safe to approach it from the outside." I took him up on his offer.
The younger man jumps into the conversation. "We had to buy you first. We needed to make sure that they couldn't hurt you." You would be damaged goods. "We also had to wait to see if they would bring out the drug. We weren't going to let it go any further. Right now, the place is swarming with cops." We got out before they came, scot-free. "They were surrounding the place as the auction happened, and they're all being arrested right now." There's no trace we were there or we bought you; at least no trace that'll speak out.
We'll be back in time for your birthday. They returned in October.
We'll be back for the holidays. At least they sent a card.
If you're sick, just tell us and we'll help. Tim never tested that one.
The younger man leans in, smiling at Tim who looks up at the face of Richard Grayson with wide eyes. "You were so brave, Timmy." Tim can't decipher the double-meaning of that comment, so he files it under the 'tricks' file.
Tim digs his chin into his chest. He wants to bring his knees up to his chest, but he doesn't have the strength for that. His chest traitorously warms at the nickname, and he looks down, tense. If their story is true, then Tim was bait. They can't keep him and they'll have to — oh no. They won't be able to give him back to his parents, not that they would even do so if it were possible. And his parents wouldn't come looking for him. He doesn't have friends and Mrs. Mac has probably quit or left and Drake Industries has either collapsed or been taken over by this point. His home has probably been raided or destroyed.
Tim's alone. Tim's always been alone, but it suddenly hits him that he'll never have the chance to do right by his parents. He was always so disappointing, always so pathetic, but now he can never make them proud. He'll never get the chance to hug his mom or have a long conversation with his dad about something they both love. He'll never be able to hear them tell him they love him, even if it wasn't true, he just wanted to hear it. He wanted to pretend. He wanted to pretend they loved him and that he was lovable.
No one is coming for him. He's going to be a pet. An enforcer for Wayne. Wayne Industries is a growing company. Of course they need something. And in that big manor? They probably have an entire prison just for Tim, a room full of cages and chains and whips to choose from. He'll never know what a pack bond should feel like, but he winces, his neck aching because he knows he'll remember what submission bites feel like soon enough.
"Tim?" The voice sounds distant. "Timmy?" There's a light tap on his arm, but he's alone. The cold envelops him, so he runs to his warm cloud. His parents are dead. They're dead. They're dead. They're gone. He hates it and he's been bought and he'll never be able to freely fly and he'll never be able to go to school or study or make friends and he'll be beaten and who knows what else and so he chooses not to worry about.
He slips back into his cloud, and he wonders if he'll feel himself die from his place in his own sky.
The funerals were a week before he was rescued. He was declared dead by the general public, but the more recent, official police conference stated that he's in 'protective custody', though Tim is on the fence whether to believe that or not. Drake Manor was sold in an instant, his parent's things destroyed, with only a few possessions like Tim's camera and photos surviving. Mrs. Mac moved across the country and is refusing to comment. The same people expressing their grief in interviews came to the auction.
Fifty-five people were arrested. Forty-seven of those people worked for the organization, two of those people flew out just for the auction, and the remaining six couldn't bail their way out of jail. Allegations are rising for people who are suspected of going to previous auctions as the lists of current auction-goers are being arrested in groups.
They're going to jail, but Tim went to a prison.
Wayne Manor is heavily guarded. The wall around it is laced with almost twenty motion-sensors due to an intruder break-in a few years back. There's spikes on the main gate that are electrified and cameras in the sprinklers and the corners and the outsides of windowsills. The front gate has a camera and a speaker box for deliveries and guests. The electronic lock is nothing like Tim has ever seen before. Additionally, Wayne Manor has Mr. Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Alfred to guard it.
Wayne Manor is huge. The first place he went was to a living room. He was sat down, and while Dick went to go collect clothing, Mr. Bruce took off the collar and the chains, not expecting any escape attempts. Tim didn't flinch, not even when the key scraped his neck and Mr. Bruce apologized for some reason. A nice lady came in, and after she guarded the door while Tim changed in a bathroom, she examined him and bandaged his wounds. A family doctor of sorts.
He didn't speak. He didn't dare speak anymore than he already has. They said he could go anywhere in the manor, but he knows they're lying, because when they spoke, they looked like they wanted to say so much more than the surface-level rules they presented him with. He knows not to yell at them or talk back, and he knows that physical affection isn't allowed, because that was how it was with his parents. It's an adult thing.
They gave him clothes and a room, stating what times breakfast normally occurs. He's been here for three days, but he hasn't dined with them just yet. The first time he skipped, they looked for him, but he hid up in the attic, sobbing because he broke a rule and he was still bandaged from the beatings Bass punished him with, and he really didn't want to die just yet. He's small and he easily fit under a loveseat, and he stayed there until the house was quiet.
He's been on a sort-of hunger strike because the kitchen has to be the most frequented place in the entire house. Jason is busy with school, Dick is busy with work and his partner, Alfred busies around the manor, and Bruce is busy with an entire business empire, but the kitchen somehow manages to be occupied at all times of the day. So he hasn't eaten.
Yeah, that plan isn't working anymore.
If Tim was in pain before, it was more bearable then because at least they fed him. The healing wounds that are dug into with every shuffle, the constant fear and anxiety keeping him awake, it’s all one hundred times worse when combined with hunger. Hunger pains are awful, especially when he knows that amazing food is right downstairs. He’s torturing himself at this point, wishing his nose would be clogged so the heavenly scents don’t reach him, never remembering that they always do.
Right now, Bruce is in a meeting, Dick is out with his friend Wally, and Jason is at book club. Alfred is, well, the chances of him being in the kitchen are low, considering that it's nowhere near a mealtime. Or at least, Tim doesn't think it is. The pain enhances a haze Tim's been trapped in.
Tim isn't cleared to fly yet from Dr. Thompkins, so he tip-toes into the kitchen. The tiled floor and the marble counters can show you your reflection. If Tim were a picky eater, he would have a wall of pantries and not one but two fridges to choose from. There's a bowl of fruit on the edge of the counter, sitting patiently, waiting for him next to the microwave. His eyes light up on the juiciest, most beautifully red-colored apple he's ever seen in his life. He didn't think fruit could look that good.
Tim looks from side to side before he sprints forward. As fast as he can without breaking into a full-on run, he makes it to the apple. He greedily snatches it, and the second it takes to raise it to his mouth is a second too long. He bites into it, his teeth opening and closing and dragging in the apple. He chews, and opens his eyes to bring out the light that fills them. He swallows and is right back to biting into it yet again. He closes his eyes.
"Is the apple to your liking, Master Drake?" Tim jumps and spins around, hand slapping over his mouth and the other hand tucking the apple behind his back. Tim's eyes land on Alfred, who is waiting by the doorway. He regards the boy with a steady, soft gaze. "I apologize for startling you. I haven't seen much of you since Master Bruce and Master Richard brought you back."
"They bought me."
"Pardon?"
"I said," Tim says a little louder, eyes on the floor, "he bought me. Mast — Mister Bruce bought me." He corrects himself, remembering that they hated when Tim adapted Alfred's honorifics. Mr. Bruce prefers 'Bruce' but Tim is unable to toss away the formal introductions ingrained into his brain. "I . . . sorry. Sorry. For — for correcting you, that is. I shouldn't have and it was dumb and it doesn't really—"
A hand held up stops Tim in his tracks. The hand rises slowly, and is gentle and relaxed, more of a dimly-red stop sign, maybe even grey. Tim snaps his lips together, looking into Alfred's eyes. The eyes are saddened but the tone is firm.
Once Tim is still, his eyes meeting the kind butler's, the hand lowers and a sigh breathes through his lips. "I do apologize for how you were introduced to this family. See, we're a kind lot, or at least I consider us so. I have raised Master Richard since he was only eight, and Master Bruce, well, I have raised that man since before he was born, when I was caring for the young, pregnant Misses Martha Wayne."
Alfred approaches Tim, nodding towards the drawer in front of the boy. Tim pulls it out, and sees it's the knife drawer. Ranging from salad knives to butchers, the drawer is as long as Tim's arm with a silver handle that matches the silver blades. Tim's pulse quickens at the memories of scalpels and cattle prods and blood and it was warm and thick and his skin was maimed and he couldn't breathe—
"The third one on the right, my dear boy." Tim hands it to Alfred, albeit rather slowly. Alfred has pulled out a cutting board and an assortment of strawberries, grapes, and another two apples. "Thank you, lad. Now, as I was saying, I raised Master Bruce. Changed that boy's diapers, might I add. He can blush about it all he wants, but he knows it. He better have. I didn't raise that boy to be malicious or cruel. I raised him to have empathy, to be kind, to help others, and I did a damn good job."
When Alfred speaks, there's an undeniable sense of warm, filling pride soaking his every word. The way Alfred's eyes light up, the way his movements bounce on the waves of happiness, it's something Tim is unfamiliar with — love. It's sheer love. It's undeniable love and pride and warmth and happiness and cheer. If Tim were to guess what that mixing pot was making, he would guess it would be a parent's love.
Tim feels it. It radiates in waves, hitting him and seeping into his cold bones. He stumbles in it, staggering along those unfamiliar tides. And for a moment, a hole is filled. A hole in knowledge, a hole in his heart; maybe it's both, maybe it's more. He can faintly smell the scent, but he's jealous that he'll never be able to take it in, all because he never got to use his pack bonds. But is this what the love others feel like is like? Is this what love is?
"Remembering that," the tone switches, not angry, but fierce. "I would like to make it very clear that if Master Bruce were to lay a hand on you, I would not hesitate to take my shotgun or one of these very knives," Alfred nods to the knives and Tim follows his gaze, the implications clicking. "and I would blast or cut off the hand that was laid upon you. I would not hesitate. My boy," Alfred turns to Tim, and captivates him in a loving, searching stare, "do you understand?"
Tim nods vehemently. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.”
”Alfred is fine, my boy.” There’s a pause. “What would you prefer I refer to you as?”
Tim thinks for a moment. “Uh - uh I guess . . . I guess Tim or — or Timothy is fine if that’s better for you. With or without the honorific can be your choice.”
“Then it is a pleasure to officially make your acquaintance, Master Tim. Now, I think a sandwich would well accompany this fruit bowl. Would you grab the bread out of the middle right pantry?”
And Tim beams.
So Tim made a friend in Alfred. Which is cool, because Tim hasn't had a friend before. Alfred is nice, and when everyone's gone, they play chess together. Alfred says Tim is a brilliant strategist, but Tim doesn't see it yet. The older man says he will, but Tim doesn't think that's going to happen.
He also doesn't think he's going to stay here very long.
See, for the longest time, Tim's had a suspicion. A suspicion that Bruce Wayne is actually Batman. It all started a few weeks before Tim was taken. He was following Nightwing for a good picture, and that's when he did it. A quadruple summersault. No one can do that. No one in the entire world can do that — except for one Richard John Grayson.
Now, while it's entirely possible that someone else learned that trick in the decade Dick has been away from the circus, everything else began to slot into place too neatly and nicely for Dick to not be Nightwing. Batman arrived three months after Bruce Wayne returned to Gotham. Robin was first reported six months after Dick was taken in by Mr. Bruce. Dick Grayson leaves the Wayne heritage? Nightwing pops up in Blüdhaven. The new Robin has a Narrows accent? Jason Todd is spotted with Mr. Bruce in public.
Tim is an absolute idiot. The dumbest person on Earth! He can't believe he didn't realize what was right in front of him. Of course Bruce is Batman. Of course he is. It's so unbelievably obvious. Jason is Robin. Dick is Nightwing. Bruce is Batman. Alfred is still Alfred. And now, Tim has a task.
He's going to find the Batcave. Even if they weren't Batman and Robin and Nightwing, they're still huge. They can still rip Tim to shreds at any time. He's vulnerable, a sitting duck. No, a sitting human child who can't shift and fly away. They can kill him and they're just waiting until he lets his guard down. But he'll get something on them before they dare lay a finger on him. He won't be hurt again.
The first part of his plan involves a stakeout. Information. The best way to outsmart the smartest? Do the unexpected. Batman will expect a stakeout. He's going to expect hidden corners and nooks, he's going to spot Tim in the shadows or under chairs or anything else that's painfully obvious.
Tim's narrowed it down to somewhere in the kitchen or the living room. The living room makes more sense. It's the private living room, the one with the painting of Bruce and his parents and the book case full of Jason's favorites that he likes to read next to the fire. It also has the grandfather clock and the different plants. Well, the book case can be a lever, the grandfather clock can be a secret entrance as could the fireplace, and one of the plants could very well be a pressure plate.
He's cooped up in the living room right now, his eyes closed. He's snuggled into the loveseat, a book in his lap and his neck in an uncomfortable position to sell the story. It's two in the morning and if his eyes were open, they'd be drooping closed. That makes it even harder to stay awake. His eyes are closed, and his mind, ever the open door, is slowly . . . creaking . . . closed . . . .. .
". . . and then he went like blam! And I know you totally saw me power-slam Mustache over in the corner!" Jason's voice graciously keeps Tim awake. Tim nearly startles, but he keeps his breathing even, his muscles relaxed, and his form human. It's not coming from Tim's right or his left, so he scratches out any other room. But it's coming from in front of him . . . the fireplace? It's muffled, like it's behind a wall? What?
"I know, Jason," chuckles Bruce. "We saw it." Tim wishes he saw it. He wishes he was able to get past the security and go flying. He wishes he could even go flying. He knows he's been seeing Batman and Robin everyday, but he's been seeing their boring civilian side. He misses the rooftop runs, the thrill of secrecy, and so much more.
There's a whoosh and suddenly, the voices aren't muffled. "I know! But then I totally flipped him over my shoulder like you taught me and—"
"Shh!"
"B, I was just getting to the—"
"Jason," Bruce lowers his voice to a whisper, and Tim can feel the warmth of the fireplace vanish as a large body blocks it and it's light. A shadow looms over Tim.
"Ohhh," Jason quietly exclaims. Their voices are so close, and it takes Tim's full concentration to not flinch, to not move, because the people who bought him, the people he's been avoiding for so long, they're right in front of him, and he's completely vulnerable. "Whatcha gonna do with him?"
Tim wants to scream. He wants to whimper or cry and for the first time he will do so in front of his parents and he'll cry for Bass or anyone and he's sorry and he's—
"I don't think I should move him right now." Tim wants to gasp with relief.
"Aww, why not?"
"He's not ready yet."
Ready for what?
The voices trail off after that. And Tim avoids them for the rest of the following day.
Tim needs to get out. And to get out, he needs to get in.
Bruce is at a meeting. Alfred is at the market. Jason is napping and Dick is in Blüdhaven. While Jason being home isn't ideal, he doesn't seem to go into the cave during the day. Tim has his camera around his neck, a pocketknife up his sleeve, and running shoes slipped onto his feet and tied securely.
Tim knows the entrance is the grandfather clock. He's in front of it now, his fingers tapping his chin as he stares at it in deep thought. He's tapped it from head to toe, but he hasn't found a pressure plate or a lever. He reaches forward, grabbing the latch to open the glass. After a moment, it springs open.
A new puzzle.
He looks at it, and he can tell that it's something to do with the clock hands. He spins them to Jason's birthday and to Bruce's birthday and so on and so forth, but none of those combinations work. There must be a million and more combinations that could open it. So he looks at it, and he looks at the numbers collecting dust, and then to the numbers that aren't.
10:48. That gets him in. He watches in awe as the grandfather clock slides smoothly to the side, revealing a dark path. Tim raises his camera and takes a picture of the combination and the hallway before he starts his trek down stairs. The stairs are long, and not lit up. He sees an elevator, wondering who or what it's for. The top of the cave is actually a cave, with pillars and points and bats cooped up in the shadows.
He reaches the base of the stairs and he could nearly cry. The Batcave is everything Tim could have ever imagined in his wildest dreams. At the sight of the massive green dinosaur, the humongous, high-tech computers, the stunning display cases and the unbelievably awesome costumes that they hold in all their legendary glory, the racks of personal Bat-weapons — all of it is enough to nearly make him faint.
He came down here for blackmail, but he begins to take pictures of each corner and under every rock. He takes multiple shots from all different angles of the display cases, of the original Robin costume. He sprints along the cave floor to rush to take a picture of the dinosaur as if it was going somewhere. He's not even bigger than one hand! He runs his hand along the penny, and he hugs it. He picks up a Batarang between pinched fingers, and he knows it won't break but still.
He stops dead still in front of the original Batman uniform, controlled by the sheer power it holds. It stops him in his track. The cowl stares down at him, the ears sharp like his voice, the black color abyss-dark like the shadows he uses to hide in before he jumps out and scares the fear of God into them.
He knows what he needs to do. Sure, he's about to blackmail Batman, and he knows that if Bruce bought him, then Batman can't be all that good of a person, but still, this is the original Batman outfit. So he raises his camera, hands trembling but steady with determination. He raises his pointer finger, going to press down to take a picture, to capture this moment and—
"Timmy?"
If the camera didn't strap around his neck, it would've fallen.
He doesn't jump; he freezes.
"Timmy? What are you . . . " Tim can't answer. He can, though, slowly turn around. He has his hands glued to his camera, his feet ready to run. He can't shift, he can't fly, but he can run. He can run, right? He didn't do all this for nothing. He's trembling but he has the knife so Jason should be scared. Jason should be scared, not Tim. Because Tim has — his camera in full view. Because of course he does. His only way out, what was going to be the card up his sleeve is completely exposed.
Tim licks his lips, staring at Jason's face that switches from concerned to confused before settling on something dark. Tim grips his camera — his ticket to freedom — even tighter and he readies to run. "Timmy," Jason says with barely contained rage, inching closer to Tim, "what the fuck are you doing? Why do you have—"
"Stay back!" Tim cries out and in a flash he's pulled the knife. It shakes but Tim is already backing up, getting closer to the edge of the cave. He keeps his eyes on Jason, one hand still on his camera, clutching in a vice grip. "You can't hurt me! You can't keep me here and I will use this! I will! Don't — don't test me!" He screams when Jason gets closer.
Jason's eyes widen at Tim's knife. "Timmy, get away from—"
Tim jumps backwards, shaking his head profusely and thrusting the knife outwards. "Don't tell me what to do! You bought me but — but I'm not your pet or your slave or — or — stay back! I swear I'll use it! I swear!"
"Timmy—"
"I will! I swear to God! I swear! And don't call me — aagghh!" Tim shrieks as his next step backwards isn't on anything.
He flies through the air, falling backwards into nothing but the rocky sewer waters below of which he never learned how to swim in. His camera strap and the camera itself float above his head as his body plummets towards the angry waves, his head falling under the water, his clothes soaking instantly as his nose and mouth are submerged, his lungs clogging with water and he can't breathehe'llldiediedie—
His eyes burst open and he shrieks as his foot explodes in a fiery agony. Teeth, unforgiving and vicious and mauling, plunge into his flesh, nearly touching bone as they pull on his vulnerable leg, ripping him roughly out of the waves and chucking him back onto the unforgivingly hard ground. He hits the ground with a wet smack, his camera tossing into the air and shattering on the ground beside him.
His head pounds. His leg pulses to the sound of his rapid heartbeat. The blood trickles down his leg, warm and sticky. A voice fills his hearing, filtering in and out but he chokes a sob. A shadow looms over and he's not ready. He's not ready to die. He's not ready to be used or abused or anything. He wishes for the isolation, the abandonment because at least he could walk then. And now he's totally helpless. He's never going to make it out of this manor alive.
"—immy! Timmy I'm — holy shit! Holy shit I'm — I didn't mean — fuck! Fuck!" The anger is unmissable. Tim whines and he sobs again. He doesn't want the drug again. He knows the drug was included in the purchase. He knows. But . . . but if he shifts?
He shifts, and now he's even smaller. The pain is less but his wings are still so injured and he hasn't flown in a month, maybe two. His wings have never been strong, his parents never taught him how to fly and his self-education was poor at best. He lays on his back, wings sprawled out like he's a pinned butterfly in someone else's display case.
"Timmy what the fuck were you thinking?!" A broken trill replaces sobs and Tim squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't — he doesn't want the drug. He'll take anything but Chemical F. Even . . . well, he wasn't claimed by Bass. Hardly by his parents, if at all. So . . . so maybe this one won't hurt as much?
"—orry. I'm so — fuck! Fuck this is bad. Timmy — Tim —" Okay, Jason doesn't know what to do. But Tim does. He can help.
Tim bares his neck.
The fake apologies stop. Jason must like Tim's suggestion. Tim keeps his neck bared, his limbs limp, ready to be — to be claimed. He can do this. He can't resist anymore, so he can be good. Like he's meant to be. He can be good for other people — they don't have to toss him away.
"Timmy what the — stop!" Tim stops crying. He squeezes his eyes shut but he doesn't do anything else, he just leaves his body open, ready. He can be good. He promises. He'd plead if he wasn't shifted.
"Timmy I don't . . . " Tim bares his neck even more, the strain on his muscles almost unbearable but he can take it. He can. "Okay. Okay. I — I get it. Uh . . . I guess since it's just me . . . " So he accepts it. Tim feels an odd sense of relief. Everything is clear now.
Yet a room has never felt so cold.
A wolf pads towards him and Tim barely flinches. He readies himself, even though he can't remember quite what it'll feel like. Will it leave a scar? Will he have to wear a bandage, a patch of honor for Jason but a mark of shame for Tim? Will he be forced by pack bonds through Bruce and the others? Will he be filled with the sense of pack or will he be another outsider?
He readies. He's ready for anything because he's done with everything. He's done fighting, he'll be good. He promises this to himself, to his poor, worn-out pain receptors. But instead of jaws wrapping around his throat and mauling him to a certainly painful death, paws tearing his rib cage open, and his screams filling the air, gentle paws tenderly pull him into a furry chest. Then something wet and rough runs along his frontal feathers.
Jason is grooming him. Tim squirms but he’s held still as a nose noses him over and a tongue runs up and down his back. He — he can’t move. The tongue brushes over his bruises, slicking along his nape and over the fragile bones of his wings. And it never turns rough. Teeth seem to disappear and all that's left is a loving touch. A preening touch from . . . from someone who cares. It's gentle. It's nice. It's a warmth filling a cold void and Tim stops squirming because it feels too good.
The knife is scattered across the floor, the camera smashed, and yet Tim feels a sense of safety. He can't feel the pack bonds, he doesn't yet know what they feel like, but when the wolf lays down, curling and Tim snuggles into the wolf's side, and the wolf curls around the hawk, around Tim, Tim can smell the pack bonds projecting safe-protect-love-mine. He revels in them, savors them.
It's Bruce who finds them, but it's Tim who invites the man to stay.
Maybe Tim will stick around a little longer. After all, he feels safe.
And for now, that's enough.