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Over his years, Tim has made many choices. But the choice to leave Drake Manor and begin a new life in Gotham’s palace feels like the most daunting decision he’s ever made.
“You may choose a room in this wing,” Alfred—the friendly, head-butler of King Bruce Wayne’s staff—had said, before leaving Tim alone in a long, plush hallway.
Above him, framed faces smile amicably down from their lofty portraits; the King, along with his two sons, Richard and Jason. Below him, the only pair of shoes he owns sully the pristine hall-runner.
The journey from Drake Manor took two long days, but they were the best days of Tim’s short life.
In a twist of strange, rare fate, the King of Gotham—Bruce Wayne—had purchased him from his lord and master, Jack Drake, after spending not more than a night in his house.
It had been the strangest twenty-four hours. In the blink of an eye, Tim’s life had turned upside down.
While he’s glad to no longer be under the thumb and service of Lord Drake, it doesn’t stop him from knowing his place. The King has made a mistake. Of that, Tim is certain. Soon enough he’ll realize what an error it was to anger Lord Drake for a mere servant—a particularly useless one, at that.
If he’s to retain his place here, he’ll have to work harder than anyone else. Right now, he’s at the bottom of the heap, but he’ll prove to Alfred and the King that he at least deserves a chance. It feels like a dream to be inside the castle. A slightly terrifying dream that he knows could easily turn into a nightmare at any moment.
Opportunities like this come around once in a lifetime, Tim won’t waste it.
For now, he thinks, as he unsticks his feet from the floor, he just has to keep his head low and do his best to blend in with the staff. Alfred seems like a nice man and Tim is sure he runs a tight ship. Hopefully he’ll have an assignment within the hour.
Although… he thinks, he’s not quite sure the steward left him on the correct floor.
“These don’t look like servant quarters,” he mutters, slinking down the hall as quietly as possible.
Reaching the end, he finally finds a door, followed by two more, that look less ornate than their predecessors.
Turning the knob and poking his head inside the first, Tim finds a small closet inside.
It is without a bed, but there are enough linens inside to create something far cozier than what he slept on under the kitchen stairs at Drake Manor. There’s even a little window, from which golden rays of the afternoon sun trickle in.
It’s absolutely perfect.
A grin peels from ear to ear as he dives onto the bulk of bare blankets, landing with a soft squeal of pleasure as he flops back and enjoys the warmth of the sun hitting his face.
This must have been what Alfred meant.
Gotham’s palace is such a change from the backwater lands of the Drake’s, but so far, a good one.
Prince Jason is kind to him, as is the King. While he hasn’t met the first in line to the throne, Prince Richard, by all accounts he’s heard the man is friendlier than a puppy. Alfred has been so incredibly good to him too, allowing him to choose his own room and setting him up with the youngest prince’s old clothes.
“I never want this day to end,” he sighs happily, eyes fluttering closed.
It is dark outside when Tim wakes with a start, bolting upright with the sudden, alarming realization that Alfred has probably been looking for him.
Quickly cursing, he flies out of the room and makes for the servant stairwell, adjacent to the third small room off the little wing.
It’s not a good start to his service here.
Taking the steps two at a time, he heads in the direction of the kitchen—briefly shown to him in passing when Alfred had given him a rapid tour of the palace.
A heavenly smell is already wafting when he arrives.
It’s a hive of activity. Manservants bustle past each other, cooks bark orders at dish-washers and sous-chef’s indiscriminately, maids hurry back and forth with pitchers.
Amongst it all, Tim feels a little lost.
“Get out the way, runt!” yells a particularly beefy looking chef. “You’ll get trampled in here.”
Nervously wringing his hands together, he stumbles back into the wall.
Who does he ask? What is he supposed to do?
Alfred didn’t even tell him what part of the palace he was to be working in. For all he knows, he should be fluffing pillows and turning back bed covers right now.
It’s not like he can just do nothing until told otherwise. In the Drake household, that was a surefire way to earn a beating. Lord Drake didn’t pay servants to loll around—you found a task and looked busy when the man walked past; one of the reason’s Tim had taken to walking around with a rag in his hand, the Drake’s liked their house of antiques polished.
The steward, Alfred, is nowhere in sight, but Tim doesn’t really expect him to be. It is likely the man is presently dealing with matters more important.
“Here,” says a young woman, yanking him over to a workbench and thrusting a potato peeler in his hand. “Those who don’t work, don’t eat.”
If nothing else, Tim is very familiar with the sentiment.
After the brief smile of grateful thanks exchanged with the girl, he immediately sets to work peeling the mountain of potatoes.
The Drake kitchens were nothing like this.
Usually it was just Mrs Mac and himself. The older woman would tell him stories about her grandchildren and hand him the carrot skins to munch on while they worked, setting about preparing all kinds of meals for Lord and Lady Drake.
“New?” asks the girl next to him, zipping through her potatoes with practiced speed.
Jerkily, he nods in reply.
“Harper,” offers the young woman, glancing up at him once. “That’s my name. And you?”
“Oh,” he startles, almost fumbling his potato in an effort to stick out his hand. “Tim. Nice to meet you, and… thank you.”
Harper doesn’t shake his palm, but she smiles nonetheless.
“Get back to your potatoes, kid,” she laughs.
“Right,” he agrees.
“You stickin’ around here long?” Harper asks, polite enough conversation, though hard to hear over the kitchen din.
Unsure, Tim simply shrugs. “I suppose?” he offers.
Without missing a beat, Harper nods. “Then we’ll be seeing each other,” she remarks with a smirk. “Don’t worry, Tim. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Half a day into his service at Gotham palace and he already misses Prince Jason’s vibrant presence.
While Tim never truly expected to serve the young man— Jason surely already had a mountain of maids and manservants to help him —he’d secretly hoped to find excuses to see the boy.
It’s not to be, he fears, given he’d trundled down to the kitchens at six only to be put on breakfast duty and then shunted off with six other servants to clean the magnificent ballroom for an upcoming gala.
It’s tough work, but he doesn’t mind it. The maids even keep up a lively gossip as they work. It’s much nicer than Drake manor, he reminds himself. Perhaps, when he sees Alfred again, he may even receive a token of earnings. Which is more than Lord Drake ever gave him. Actually, a warm place to sleep, food in his belly, and chatty company is far more than he ever would have seen with the Drakes.
“Did you hear—?” says one of the maids nearby. “The young prince was in a frightful mood this morning—”
“I heard,” cuts in the other, “the king was not much better.”
“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out, but—”
“Oh, neither did I, though I caught something about some backwater Lord. Drake? I believe that was the name. And some child? Though, to be honest, I’m not sure what King Wayne was raving about.”
“Oh dear.”
Oh dear, indeed.
Carefully, so as not to elicit unwanted attention, Tim breathes through his nose and does his best to calm his jackrabbiting heart.
There’s no way they’re angry at Tim, right? It’s an illogical conclusion. After all, he hasn’t even seen the king or either of his sons since he was carted off by Alfred yesterday and told to choose a room.
Mentally, he retraces his steps, finding faults where there were previously none.
It’s too soon for King Wayne to realize his mistake.
It’s too soon for Tim to return to Lord and Lady Drake.
God, he doesn’t even want to know what they’ll do to him if he’s sent back.
No, no, the King wouldn’t do that to him. Not after he paid such a sum for Tim and not after he made such a scene about the sores and bruises Lord Drake had beaten into his back. Right?
But what if the King doesn’t care anymore? Out of sight, out of mind. That is the saying.
Perhaps the coffers were empty now, all because the king had purchased him. No, Gotham wasn’t just some poor country in the west anymore. Then perhaps Lady Drake had revealed his parentage? No, the woman would sooner perish than lay claim to Tim as her son. Perhaps someone had reported him to Alfred, told the man Tim wasn’t up to standard as a servant in the palace. No, he’d only been here half a day!
Brain spinning faster than a wheel on a runaway carriage, Tim churns through scenario after scenario. It’s just not possible that he’s already slipped up, but after years of second guessing himself with Lord Drake, it’s a hard habit to switch off.
Unfortunately, things only slide further downhill from there.
By lunchtime a message has gone out; a cook only gives it to him in passing, so he doesn’t understand who it is they’re looking for exactly, but one of the prince’s has disappeared!
It’s either Prince Jason or Prince Richard, so Tim decides that if he comes across either of them, he’ll take them straight to the stewards quarters—finding a missing prince seems important enough to interrupt Alfred’s busy schedule without repercussions.
With determination, he sets out, scouring every inch of the palace for Jason. Given Jason is the younger of the two princes, plus the one Tim’s more familiar with, it’s the best place to start.
Tim tries the library, the greenhouse, and the east wing before finding himself in the same ballroom he just left.
It’s there that he finally finds Jason, escorted by Alfred.
An overwhelming sense of relief floods him as he runs across the plaquet floor, his shoes click-clacking loudly in the quiet.
“Your highness!” he exclaims, breathlessly. “They found you, thank god!”
Both the young prince and the steward come to an immediate and abrupt stop.
It’s only then that Tim realizes he’s made an error.
“Oh, um! I’m sorry!” he apologies quickly, stooping into a bow. “I—I didn’t mean to, I—!”
This isn’t the Drake house, where he would be beaten for such informality.
This is the palace. And that’s so much worse.
Alfred looks down at him like he’s grown a second head.
Tim thinks there’s never been a better time for the floor to swallow him whole.
Not only has he gone and made a fool of himself, but he’s acted inappropriately toward the second in line for Gotham’s throne.
The young prince may have saved him from the Drake’s, but now that the danger is over and Tim is safe, that doesn’t mean Jason wants to be friends. Given their social standing, they never will be.
Without warning, Prince Jason lunges, nearly knocking Tim to the floor.
“Tim!” he cries, wrapping his arms around Tim’s shoulders and practically smothering him. “Oh my god, where the hell were you? We thought something had happened! That you were laying in some room somewhere, unconscious. Alfred couldn’t find you! No one could!”
“Find… me?” he asks haltingly.
Abruptly, Jason pulls back, just in time for Tim to watch Alfred hurry out of the room.
“Yes, you idiot!” he exclaims. “Alfred went back to see if you’d chosen a room and you were gone! Not a trace of you.”
Confused, Tim suddenly finds his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth as the young prince barrels on.
“Bruce said you were probably just settling in, but when you weren’t down for breakfast we started getting worried.”
The ballroom is big, but there’s no mistaking the figure that strides in from across the hall.
It’s King Bruce Wayne, flanked by Alfred on one side and someone Tim can only assume is Prince Richard on the other.
“I did choose a room,” he hurries to explain. “At first I thought I was on the wrong floor, the wing was clearly for guests, but the linen cupboard was plenty spacious.”
There’s a moment where Jason looks as though Tim has hit him over the back of the head with a mallet, stunning him.
“I—it was an accident—” he quickly continues as the king comes to a stop just behind Prince Jason. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I swear!”
He can already feel his eyes watering. Just half a day and he is already in trouble. Lord Drake was right about him, he really is worthless.
“When I woke up I couldn’t find Alfred and I didn’t want to bother anyone,” he says, hoping Jason will understand. “So I went to the kitchens and a really nice girl helped me at the potato station.”
Behind the prince, the king balks.
“Potato station?!” he exclaims.
It isn’t Lord Drake standing before him, but he nonetheless braces for the hit as he breathlessly rushes to finish his explanation.
“Alfred still hadn’t given me an assignment and I didn’t want to trouble him when I first rose, so I simply went to the kitchens and helped with breakfast,” he whispers, though it sounds like a terrible excuse, even to his own ears. “Then I was told to clean this ballroom with the maids. We only stopped when a message got out that one of the prince’s was missing!”
Carefully, he takes in each of the expressions on the four faces before him.
Prince Richard looks pleasantly bemused. Alfred looks torn somewhere between astounded and shocked. King Bruce is pale and confused. And Prince Jason looks nothing short of angry and bewildered.
The first real tears fall.
“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, doing his best to scrub away the wetness on his cheeks. “Was I supposed to be working somewhere else? I didn’t know, I swear. Please, don’t throw me out. Please give me another chance. I can work really hard, I promise. Just give me one more try, I beg you.”
Gently, King Bruce pats Jason on the shoulder and the boy quietly steps aside, looking more than just a little lost at Tim’s open sobbing.
The king gets down on one knee, eye to eye with Tim before he opens his mouth to speak.
King Bruce looks uncomfortable and unsure. A reasonable reaction, Tim thinks. How awkward, to deal with a crying servant.
“It seems,” the man begins, clearing his throat. “I was not clear with my intentions when I brought you here, Tim.”
There’s an earnestness to his eyes that Lord Drake never had. A softness to his demeanor and a kindness Tim would view as a farce in anyone else’s expression.
“You are not here to work for the palace,” Bruce continues, momentarily looking upset. “You are here because I have chosen to take you in as my ward and son.”
This is a dream. Or a nightmare. Or… something. Tim doesn’t know what; but Jason is grinning at him now, Alfred’s eyes have gone hazy with some unnamed emotion, and Prince Richard looks about ready to wipe away a few tears of his own.
“Timothy,” the king continues, recapturing his attention. “I would like you to become a member of my family.”
W… what?
This. It’s too much. It can’t be happening. It’s not real. It’s all a dream. He’s hit his head. He’s bleeding out in Drake manor really slowly and this whole experience has just been a dying wish.
“Your… family?” he whispers, tasting salt on his lips. “But, why? I’m not. I’m not anyone special. I don’t understand.”
He wants to take a step back, but King Bruce’s gaze has him rooted in place.
Nobody has ever wanted him as family before. Even Lady Drake had passed him to the wet nurse the moment she’d been able.
Slowly and very gingerly, the king reaches up and ruffles his hair, like he’s being especially careful not to accidentally spook Tim.
“You’re already important to us, Tim,” he says quietly. “So you are special.”
A family, Tim muses, someone choosing him.
“You want me?” he questions.
“Yes,” the king replies earnestly. “You, Tim.”
“Oh,” he returns eloquently.
Telegraphing the action, Bruce pulls Tim close and surrounds him in a hug, quickly joined first by Prince Richard and then shortly by Prince Jason.
“So, what do you say, Tim?” says Jason over Bruce’s shoulder, still grinning. “You wanna be a part of our family?”
Carefully, Tim considers.
A family, huh.
“Yeah,” he whispers with a slight nod. “I think I’d like a family.”
Over his years, Tim has made many choices. But the choice to leave Drake Manor and begin a new life in Gotham’s palace feels like the first right choice he’s ever made.