Chapter Text
The Drake household had since anyone could recall, always consisted of the regal Janet Drake, her charismatic husband, and their young son Timothy– and a butler.
Who could forget the butler?
But perhaps there was a time in Gotham’s memory when the family of nouveau riche didn’t have the exclusive servant, and the upper-crust gossipers who rule over her filth would um and ah at the puzzle if put to task, (although it would all be hypothetical, as the Gotham elite do not gossip about the hired help, that would be gauche- “but did you hear about Anderson getting caught with a maid?”) However, if a date had to be procured, it would be sometime before the Drake’s expedition to an unusual dig site on the outskirts of London.
And if asked themselves, the Drake couple would note their fortune in accepting the offer from a real estate developer who remembered their good friends the Drakes, whom “I hear dabble in archaeology?”
Jack and Janet Drake didn’t usually dabble in modern history, the crumbling remains of the British manor set for re-development barely dated back to the 1700s, hardly archaeological, or an important find. But it was the proclivity of old English lords, past and present, to hoard treasures from all over the British empire, that made the site alluring. “Remember that trip to Egypt dear, just before he was born? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to find some of those times here? The memories!”
The couple would fly in to extract anything of value from the rubble of Victorian basements and boiler rooms, in exchange for a handsome partnership with the developer and business what-have-you. So, a rather novel experience for the records ended up being found in the dreary landscape that barely measured up to the marvels of other exotic locations.
However, there would be no such interview, or any records of the venture, besides the memories of those involved. And perhaps not even there…
Sometimes amateur archaeology had to be conducted under the table, you see? And recollections wax and wane with time, just as the antique gains were stowed away, left to collect dust once again in the Museum named the Drake estate.
But what could not be f̵̰̠͋o̸̢͋͐̈ȓ̸͚͈̹͇g̷͓̅̄̈o̸̙̍̈́̔ẗ̷͎́́͗t̷̫͔̅͒͘e̴͙̒͛n̸̬̗͓̐̓̀ͅ ̴̛̖̗̯̌͑, was the b̵̛̪̳̑̅͗̈́ù̵̬́͋̔̏̿́̕͝ț̸̨̟̣͉͇͕̽̀̏̃͠ĺ̷̬̼̂͆̈́͘ͅě̸̯͓̯̺̘͉́̈̇̑̈̚̚r̷̨̐̔̑͌̒́͠.
Perhaps the circumstances that brought the man into Drake’s employ might be little remembered, but was it any surprise Jack Drake’s charisma and growing wealth would attract the attention of skilled labour?
“Busybodies are always trying to claw their way up in the world, it seems that England is no exception. But a butler? You’d think they’re trying to imitate the Wayne’s- did you hear...”
But the M̴̻̭̼͇̺͕̘͕͔̜̞̣͔̤̥̃̑͊̃͋̎̒̆̉͆ë̸̥͕̳́̂́̋́͒̍͒̈́͗̔̎͂̚̕͘m̸̨̪̥̳̜̮̪̰̳̠̞̝͇̿͂͌͂̍̒̓̃̾̋̍̎͑͂̆͌ơ̵͔̘̭͉̒̅́͆̅̎̇̎͒̏r̷̢̧̛̼̋̈͒ȋ̸̢̨̞͉̦̞̱͎̳̱̯̘͙̅̌̏͊̔̏̑͜͠e̷̡̢͕̳͖̠̪̙͚̔̍s̴̨̨̛̳̝͚̱̲̤̃̀̈́̓̓͂̕͝͠ Butler?
…Perhaps not even the butler would be remembered in the end, as the man himself would fade into obscurity too, held only in the hazy memories of too few, not even a photograph in his ward’s grand collection. But the young boy, his ward, his only task, who bore the weight of his parent's selfish ḓ̴̪̮͊̃̈͂e̵̢̥̟͍̎͆̀š̴̗̘̯̩i̷͚͊͜r̷̜͍͍̄̈́e̶̻͛̚, would be raised the perfect heir to the Drake’s empire and would rise to prominence in the world of business one day, and the rooftops of Gotham at night.
Gotham didn’t forget her protectors who rose above. But her true shadows, swarming, swirling and devouring, are far too numerous to bother recollecting.
“Tch. Drake, have you finally cracked, or are you planning to end it yourself with a butter knife. The Wayne name too much to bear?”
“...What? No!" Timothy Drake, or (preferably always) Tim, looks dispondently at the cutlery in his hand as he tries to explain why he’s been caught staring so intently at a butter knife, "I'm just, I'm… it’s that- the silver,” He waves said knife perhaps a little too wildly than is strictly appropriate, feeling the increased pressure now that he's inadvertently attracted the attention of the entire bat clan, who, even at the sacred dinner table, cannot resist the allure of family drama.
Tim sighs, knowing that a complete explanation is needed to satisfy the vultures, “You know... the silver, it’s tarnished…” He starts to say, only to realise the error of such a statement.
It’s not like him to be so careless as to provide the youngest Wayne more ammunition for his latest anti-Tim campaign. He catches the look of disgust from the youngest, and at the illustrious head of the table, Bruce Wayne’s face pinches awkwardly from where even he’d started listening in.
Tim rushes to clarify again, catching the silent disapproval, “I didn’t mean it like that!" he turns to the side, "I’m sorry Alfred, I really didn’t mean anything by it, your work is fine, it’s marvellous actually-” Said butler raises a posh British eyebrow from the corner, “… Really, it’s just… it brings back memories. I almost remember having a butler once... But I’m unsure, actually, and that’s the problem,” Tim finishes weakly. He places a finger to his brow, trying to slip back into the bewildering memories that brought up the sense of unplaceable nostalgia.
He'd only just moved into the Manor full-time, and already his memories of his life before, his family home, were cloudy. He originally thought it was just a temporary daze from the troubled times, one parent dead, the other in a coma. Moving into Wayne Manor in quick succession was definitely stressful... but the tarnished silverware had dredged up something strange from the murky pool, his memories of childhood mixing and turning, made his head spin. The inexplicable feeling of something missing was disturbing, to say the least. A strange haze had settled over his mind, almost like a blurred photograph.
“!”
“A photograph!” Tim jolts out of his chair in epiphany, startling the bat's at the table.
“...you okay, Tim? You haven't been staying up all night again, have you?” The eldest, Dick hedges warily like one approaches a spooked cat.
“Yes-! No! Everything is fine, will be fine" Tim pushes back from the table, "I just need to take a look at something quickly! If you’d excuse me-!” He quickly flees the dining room, then around the corner, his heavy footsteps heard stomping up the stairs. Some of the remaining Wyanes engage in a range of expressions of silent communication at the sudden departure.
“Father, Drake is a disgrace to the Wayne name, ” Only Damian states like a fact, and to him, it likely is.
"Not now Damian," Bruce replies as he also pulls away from the table to follow his newest teenage ward up the stairs at a much more sedate pace.
Bruce finds his second youngest in his new room, rummaging under the bed to drag out an old shoe box, forgoing a greeting in favour of rifling through a veritable trove of old photos and polaroids.
“Found it!” Tim declares victoriously and shoves the winning photo into Bruce's face.
It is a picture of a young Tim smiling shyly to the camera in front of the Gotham City library under a couple stray rays of sunlight. Bruce notes the mundane photography, containing surprisingly good weather for Gotham- he observes.
“This picture couldn't have been taken by my parents; it must've been taken by that butler. I’m sure of it.” Tim relinquishes the photo to Bruce so he can continue spreading the piles of photos across the floor. Predominantly, landscapes of Gotham at daytime, dispersed with portraits of a young Tim at various ages posing around Gotham, like in the library picture, at parks, and attending various school ceremonies. Lastly, a few candid shots of his parents.
“These are all my family photos, all of them.”
Jason, having taken his sweet time mounting the stairs, crosses his arms and leans on the doorframe to look down at the so-called family photos. From what he sees, Tim’s parents only appear sporadically in frames from behind corners or in opportunistically candid shots. He scoffs at the replacement’s commitments to his stalker tendancies.
“-I took photos of everything as a kid- look at this.”
Tim highlights the aforementioned picture of his parents sitting in a modern living room, taken from a notably low angle. Definitely a stalker pic, Jason notes, “Uh-huh.”
Tim narrows his eyes, noticing Jason at the door, “I took photos of everything as a child.” He repeats slowly, giving his brother a disbelieving look.
“And? What’s this supposed to be, show and tell?”
Tim huffs in visible annoyance, his thoughts apparently above the minds of poor crime alley orphans, “If I took photos of everything as a child, wouldn't there be pictures of the butler? Look at these pictures taken of me,” His eyes draw back to the scattered pile, “They definitely weren’t taken by my parents," Tim picks up another photo to shove into Jason's face, "Look, I even took a photo of a washing maching, a damn washing machine, literally anything and everything. But there's still no trace of a butler. But he must exist, I’m sure of it...”
“…Uh, not that we doubt you, Timmy, that this isn’t all very… convincing, but how can you be so sure…?” Dick, the next to arrive at the door, gestures at the scattered piles of pictures, “Yes, you’ve taken hundreds of photos; maybe this guy should’ve appeared in at least one. But… you must know how dubious this sounds, right?-” His concerned look concealed a frown.
“No." Tim refutes stubbornly, "I’m sure… and it’s not lack of sleep, I'm not that tired, yet you make it sound like I'm going insane!" "Not what I said," Dick sighs. Tim continues undeterred, "I must've had a butler. I would remember, I must remember, because he practically raised me! If he didn’t, that would mean I was living alone, for- for over ten years!" He throws his hands up, "Which, I wasn’t, because that would be actually insane… ” How could someone have forgotten their whole childhood?
His spiralling thoughts are stopped by a steady hand on his shoulder.
Bruce steps up to intervene, the calming force in Tim’s recently turbulent life, “Steady, I believe you. We’ll work this out, calmly; there's never a better time for some good old detective work, chum. You’ve followed your gut, and now, we find the evidence.”
Before he knew it, Tim was taking in deep breaths again, soaking in Bruce’s advice like a sponge, the rising uncertainty draining away.
“Okay, okay… There's what I know; I must have had a butler, or at least one other mystery person I can't remember. Even if they don’t show up in any of my pictures, I know the mystery party must have existed, because it's impossible for my parents to have taken even some of these," Tim flips over a couple of the photos to reveal the dates recorded on the backs. "It's easy to prove their absence from days which coincide with trips abroad…-!”
Tim slaps his hand to his forehead, garnering more questioning looks from his pseudo family, “How could I be so blind! I recall my parents made a point to never hire any additional staff after I was three or four, but wouldn't some sort of employee have to be on record to look after me? And if not, that's proof that something's up- we have our lead!”
“It should be. Even the simplest of solutions require a clear mind to find.” Bruce’s mouth twitches in what might be an approximation of a smile, “We'll help you look for records.”
“Yeah, just go ahead and volunteer all of us, old man. It’s not like this family bonds over anything other than crime-fighting and detective mysteries– next time, I get to pick the activity, and I choose arson.”
"If Todd gets to pick a family activity, I request that we go to the zoo and drop these imbeciles off." Damian, the last to arrive, is just in time to deliver his valued thoughts.
"Now, now Dami, you don't have to participate in family bonding if you don't want to today; detective mysteries aren't mandatory. How about we go discuss that trip to the zoo?"
As Damian was ushered away by Dick, it left just the Batman, and Robins two and three to continue the impromptu investigation. And despite all his grumbling, Jason voluntarily accompanied Bruce and Tim downstairs to examine the Drake records. Call it a lack of entertainment or just morbid curiosity towards his replacement’s equivalent of a nervous breakdown.
“Here he is!” With ease, Tim pulls up a lone employment contract excitedly, “One… Sebastian Michaelis, no picture," Time squints at the screen, trying to recall anything about the faceless name. "His address and banking show a residence at... one of my parents' archeological sites? If I recall, that one was London… but that place was a wreck even before the developers got to it.” He pulls up the geolocation and pictures of a crumbling building onto the Batcomputer’s numerous screens, “He couldn’t have lived there…right? Who is this guy?
“Land custodian? Inheritance, maybe?”
“Not on paper at least, there’s no record of any land owned by a Sebastian Michaelis in Britain, no public file, government profile, no birth certificate. This whole employment contract screams phony” All three look at the sparse photocopy on the screen in tacit agreement. "Seriously, why would my parents even accept such a blatant forgery?" Tim appears mildly offended at the thought of such negligence, even from his indisposed parents.
“A fake name then.” Jason pitches in again, surprisingly helpfully unhelpful.
Tim turns briefly, unimpressed, “Obviously. Without spending a few days digging deeper, there's no obvious digital trail to follow here. But luckily, a digital footprint is not all we have access to.”
A cursory search of Drake Manor, already accumulating dust, showed no signs of any suspicious activity or any other clue pointing to Tim's phantom butler, but luckily, it was not the entirety of the plan.
“Everything they unearthed in London was stored away in the attic; not ‘historical’ enough for a hallway display.” Tim narrates with helpful air quotes as he leads Jason and Bruce up the stairs.
Jason couldn’t make heads or tails of the piles upon piles of boxes and shelves filled with dusty antiques, but Tim evidently knew exactly where to look, the little nerd.
“-here we go, London expedition, winter 19XX; in partnership with Platinum Land Developments.” Tim reads off an itemised note as he prys open the large cardboard shipping container.
Over the next half hour, they (read: Bruce and Jason) unpack large boxes of bubble-wrapped pottery shards, old iron tools and miscellaneous junk, as Tim sits on an old dresser to read off the inventory and attached expedition notes.
“Says here that there should be an item they’ve labelled ‘diary’, I’d say that’s the most promising lead.”
Jason grunts as he helps lug another broken antique pot, “Yeah? Then why don’t you come over here and find it yourself, huh? Actually, why am I even here helping you sort through your parents’ junk?”
“Jason.” Bruce is quick to admonish (probably just bored, the ass).
“Okay then, I apologise. Your dead parent's junk.” Jason smirks in his former guardian’s direction, anticipating a reaction, but his fun is ruined when he doesn’t receive one.
“Found it.” Bruce holds up his excuse to ignore his troublesome sons. However, he doesn't prevent the antique from being snatched by Jason's swift reach.
“Hm, 1875…” Jason gives the leather-bound journal a cursory look, “Yep, looks like a diary, alright- say, replacement; did your family regularly pillage antique family history just to read their ancestors’ diaries? This would suggest that the stalking is hereditary.” He grins meanly.
Disappointingly, Tim spares only the smallest glare in response to Jason’s provocation and focuses on the book, which Bruce had appropriated from his distracted hands to pass to its de facto owner. Nobody was being particularly fun today... maybe he should just leave...
“To answer your question, no. The London trip was actually an outlier; that’s why I remember it so clearly, my parents mentioned it... all the time? and..." Tim's commentary comes to a stop as his gaze is increasingly attracted to the pages he's glancing through, "Does this diary… look rather, occult to you?”
Both Bruce and Jason look over Tim’s small shoulders.
“Hexagrams, really?... and is that an eyeball…?" Jason notes. It does, all things considered, contain a rather sordid diagram of an occult-looking eyeball, along with other miscellaneous body parts... "Cool.”
“Jason, I’ve got something here, I don’t know what yet, or specifically how it connects… but some of these sigils are pinging results on the JL database, they were filed by Zatanna-”
Back in the cave, Tim wasted no time cross-referencing everything in the diary with every database known to man, or nerd-kind. Jason’s immature snigger is heard only in the privacy of his mind, “Good, we can probably go ask her now.”
“-if you’d let me finish, Jason.” Tim grunts humourlessly, “Sigils, that were acquired from one John, Constantine.”
"..."
“...Well, fuck.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Unfortunately, Bruce couldn’t accompany the rip-off robins forever and left for JL business as they wasted no time to meet up with the infamous Brit. The big bat didn’t know what he was missing out on.
“And where exactly did you say you found this?”
“In my-”
“Yes, I heard you the first time, in your attic. It was rhetorical, buttercup." Derides John Constantine, British bastard extraordinaire.
"What I really want to know is why you have notes on genuine demon summoning- And no, you don’t have to tell me again, you already explained; your parents were criminally amateur archaeologists, found it in England, I can’t tell you anything more, secret identities, yadda-yadda. Damn bats and all that...” Constantine mumbles around a cigarette.
“I only gave Zatanna those sigils because I was hoping you lot would go bother her. Considering they're completely harmless piecemeal, I wasn't actually expecting anyone to need my help. But I guess, lucky you for finding the genuine article, you got to bother me. This here-” Constantine irreverently slaps the book for emphasis, "May turn out to be a passable use of my expertise, just maybe.”
“So basically, you’re saying that replacement’s parents here have a genuine demon summoning manual,” Jason concludes for the replacement, and honestly, Tim still doesn’t know why the part-time crime lord is even here (probably to see him fall off the deep end if Tim’s being honest).
“Not a manual Bats," Constantine rolls his eyes, "Listen up, it’s still a diary, yeah? Did you even read it? Gots lots of other stuff too. Cause while what's written is the real deal, it’s still just a regular human diary.”
Jason easily rolls off Constantine's ridicule with a shrug, “Then RR, chances are, your mystery butler was also a part-time demon summoner.” He turns back to Constantine, “And any chances he’d have used this information to say- erase memories of himself from someone’s mind?”
“Lookie here Reds, I don’t think you understand– wait, did you say, butler?” Constantine, perches his cigarette between his teeth and flips through the book again, this time with more focus, “Huh. Whad'ya know. From the sounds of it, your mystery man ain’t no demon summoner at all, but a bonafide demon. Loss of memory, posing as a butler, that’s two for two classic demon behaviour. Are you sure you guys are detectives? Can't even tell a proper English gent from the demonic kind?"
"What? Like yourself?" Jason snipes the crusty brit while Tim, off to the side, looks to be having some sort of life-changing revelation.
"Looksies, I don't know what more you want me to say, but it seems to me that your demon isn't even a problem anymore, that is to say, not my problem. You waltz in here, give me an earful, and I’m not even getting paid for this shite.”
“… no way,” Tim murmurs, going pale- paler than usual.
“Yeah, would you believe it? Not a quid for my time- consultancy, or whatever.” Constantine grins conspiratorially through his re-lit cigarette.
“Drop the smug bastard act Constantine-” Jason uncharacteristically retorts in Tim’s defence. He just likes to be the biggest asshole in the room at all times, thank you very much.
“Nah, this is all-natural I’m afraid.” Jason elects to ignore the man's smug look in favour of his useless replacement.
He waves a gloved hand in front of his face, “Earth to replacement. What’s the hold-up?”
Jason can’t even believe he has the patience to wait the few seconds required for an answer.
“... I remember now… Sebastian, he's the one who raised me. Ten years, just… forgotten?” Tim looks to be trying hard to stay on his feet, the hand cradling his head is telling.
But thank god, big bad Red Hood is here to save the day then, Jason muses sardonically, what had become of his life?
“Constantine.”
“Woah there, helmet hero, I didn’t do anything.” Constantine says while doing the world's worst, ‘Who? Me?’ impression.
“Yeah, likely. Tell me what’s up with the replacement, before I replace you.” Jason spits… not his best threat ever, but he’ll take it. And from the looks of it, Constantine knows it too with a smug grin. Jason’s fingers twitch towards his holsters.
“Keep your shirt on Red-dead, it was just a joke.”
Jason doesn’t even reply this time, he may be the bat-brute of the litter but he’s smart enough not to continue the one-up assholery with the laughing magician any longer, unless they want to start pulling guns.
“Sure bats, that there,” Constantine points to Tim with a cigarette like the pompous prick he is, “Is a demon’s oblivion.”
“... demon oblivion? Really?” Jason doesn't try to hide his disbelief, "Sounds fake."
“You betcha, there’s a reason why every nan and sue doesn't know about the demon who stole uncle Bob's soul; localised supernatural amnesia. Normal humans don’t have resistance to it until the veil is lifted, what I just did. In short, now he knows, he knows. I don’t make the rules ‘round here," Constantine puts his hands up dismissively like he's not the only supernatural expert in the room- if you don't include Jason's one-time dip in the magical green bath water. But who's counting?. Constantine swivels to face him as if reading his thoughts, "I don’t know how that applies to you Red-dead, but if little-red riding here was in contact with a demon for ten years, when it finally ditched the mortal plane, those ten years of memories? Poof.” He even emphasises the sound effect with some lazy jazz hands, the bastard.
“Ten years though…" Contantine turns to Tim as he strokes at his stubble in a classic 'thinking' pose, "Your memories will probably be patchy for a while then, that’s a pretty long time for a demon to stick around, even for a servant type… any chance someone close to your family has experienced the sudden loss of a soul recently, coma, heart attack, death, so on and so forth?”
Tim, back and alert to the world, nods weakly, “...my… parents. One dead, one in a coma, the doctors don’t know why or when he’ll wake up.”
“Yeah mate, that’ll be it then, three for three. Contracts with demons rarely waver anything but souls. Coma? Then they’re as good as dead, unless you plan on visiting the underworld to retrieve them. Wouldn’t recommend that though, literal hell that is.”
“I see,” Tim answers, cold detachment taking back control of his demeanour. And there’s the mini Bruce Jason knows and hates. Tim is a master at compartmentalisation when it comes to tragedy. He was starting to wonder when the replacement's switch would flip.
“What? No screaming, no denial, no oh how unfair? No? Then brilliant.” Constantine looks pleasantly surprised, and just about ready to dust off his hands and leave.
What a bastard, Jason thinks, not for the first time, and that’s coming from the Red Hood, Gotham avenger, zombie, and part-time crime-lord extraordinaire.
“Can you summon a demon?” The casual request travels deceptively lightly through the air.
“Way too easily, easy peasy, but- Wait just a moment, leave it out bats! I know what you're doing! No way I’m summoning a demon for you. Did you miss the memo where I kick the buggers out of the mortal plan, not invite them back in?!” Constantine spits his well-chewed cigarette onto the floor.
“Well, that’s not what I’ve heard about the cavalier John Constantine.”
“Oh- Up yours too battsy.” Constantine spits again for good measure and grinds the embers under his heel before turing away.
Tim crosses his arms unaffected, “Unlike yourself, I’m not in the business of self-denial; I'm laying out plain and simple what I'm after. All I need to know is if you can summon the demon that calls itself Sebastian, contained, and safely. There's no one better for the job. Since I came here looking for answers, I see no reason to leave without them. That is all; I’ll even pay you for the trouble... with JL back pay.”
"..."
“...you can do that? Wait- It’s all about answers for your type innit? Can't leave good enough alone. I'm telling you, you’re gonna regret this little red." Constantine slowly turns back around," But you know what, I’ll do it. And I’ll even do it for you right and proper at that, not for the money, but just to sit back, watch, and say I told you so when it all goes tits up and I'll have to be the one to fix it. And also, for the money.”
“Fantastic,” Red Robin and the laughing magician exchange smiles that are more akin to shark-like grins.
"...do I get a say in this?" Jason asks from the side, politely at first, but his voice falls on deaf ears.
“You know what, fuck you replacement, and fuck you too John. We’re summoning a fucking demon.”