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Drake Manor isn’t particularly in an area many would call “Isolated”.
It’s an estate, surrounded by estates on the outskirts of a city. Sprawling and large and…strange.
It is still Gotham, after all.
Tim’s only ever thought of monsters with names of Rogues. Scarecrow. Joker. But it would be just his luck to have real monsters too, wouldn’t it?
Tim’s eyes don’t move from the figure standing in his kitchen, bright white lights and white walls standing out starkly against the figure’s stained, torn clothing.
He doesn’t move and watches as the figure’s leg drags across the ground as he tries to walk.
The sounds are inhuman. This isn’t someone under some kind of gas influence.
Tim isn’t sure what this is.
His eyes stay locked on the figure, watching with wide eyes. What is he supposed to do in this situation?
Technically, it’s someone breaking and entering. He should probably call the police.
But Tim…isn’t sure that’s applicable when he can see the figure’s ribcage protruding from his side.
Maybe he should call Batman? After all, Bruce Wayne is right next door. But Tim isn’t sure he should if this isn’t a rogue or somehow rogue-related.
Tim wishes the school system had taught him what to do in this situation when they were doing drills about gangs and mobs and rogues.
Unfortunately, the school system was lacking and now Tim’s frozen with indecision.
Luckily, it turns out that he doesn’t need to make a decision.
Two figures step into the room, steps silent even in the echoing white halls. Tim spies the glint of metal in one of their extended hands before he sees them.
One figure in a jacket and jeans, hands extended and holding onto a pistol.
Another figure behind them, clad in plaid and jeans and also holding a gun, looking around more than the other, as if to make sure there’s no-one else around.
Luckily, Tim’s had plenty of practice not being seen.
The one in plaid nods, either to himself or to the person in front of him. There’s the click of a safety being turned off, to which the kitchen figure turns and rushes the two. Immediately, 3 gun-shots ring out.
They’re loud in the silence.
They’re even louder when they echo down halls.
They’re luckily loud enough to hide Tim’s surprised yelp as he slams a hand down over his own lips, eyes even wider than before.
The figure in the kitchen falls to the ground. Tim doesn’t see where the bullets landed. He doesn’t think he wants to see.
It’s silent for a moment, everything still. Two guns trained on a still figure. But Tim sees black blood spreading across the kitchen tiles and can’t help the dismayed gap that leaves his lips.
Two guns spin to him and Tim freezes.
This is Gotham. It isn’t the first time he’s been held at gunpoint. But he freezes every time. Like his body thinks “If I don’t move, they can’t see me” despite Tim knowing for a fact that isn’t true.
“Is that a kid?” the jacket figure asks, voice gruff and incredulous.
The figure in plaid doesn’t answer him, holstering his gun and pushing the jacket guy’s away from Tim with a light shove.
Plaid guy moves toward Tim and his body releases. He should run but where is he going to go? Up the stairs where there’s no other way out? He isn’t some horror movie trope, thanks.
He stays where he is and reaches for the vase on the little table next to him instead. At least he can use that as a weapon.
The plaid figure’s eyes track the movement, realizes what he’s doing but he doesn’t seem to care.
They crouch in front of Tim, their tall form only slightly smaller than him even on their haunches.
“Hey. Are you alright?” The voice is kind, seems sincere. But Tim isn’t stupid. So does Harvey Dent’s at times. So does Harley Quinn’s. He doesn’t let go of the vase.
The figure doesn’t seem surprised. A smile flits onto their lips as they look into Tim’s eyes.
“I’m Sam. That’s my brother Dean” they introduce, waving behind them to the jacket figure, who seems to be shoving at the body in his kitchen.
Sam interposes himself between Tim and the view before Tim can take in what exactly the man is doing.
“Are you hurt?” Sam asks.
Tim blinks, clenches his hand around the vase and immediately slackens the grip when he realizes that it’s probably one of the pieces his parents brought back from one of their trips. He swallows. Shakes his head.
Sam smiles at him, like he’s proud of Tim for not being hurt, despite Tim being frozen and standing back.
Tim purses his lips. Looks away as he puts the vase back onto the table, after all, what’s a vase going to do against 2 guns?
“Did you know this person?” Sam asks and Tim looks over his shoulder.
The figure that was once alive in his kitchen is dirty, not like the kids Tim sees while…out. Not like living on the streets. But like they’d crawled on the ground for hours. Their nails are broken and bent back. Their fingers are clumped with mud.
Their face is almost rotten off.
But Tim recognizes the features before Sam can step between him and them again.
“Mrs Ashley?” Tim asks, his own voice sounding rather faint as it echoes back to him. His ears starting to ring as his head goes cold.
Mrs Ashley had been his nanny before Mrs Mac. She hadn’t come around in a while and when his parents finally told him what happened, they told him that she’d gotten mixed up in something she wasn’t supposed to. Judging by the apparent gun-shot wound to her face, Tim would probably agree.
There’s a hand on his shoulder now, not restraining but restricting as Sam inserts himself back into Tim’s vision.
“It’s alright. That isn’t her anymore” Sam says and that, Tim can agree with.
“Mrs Ashley’s been dead for almost a year” Tim says and it sounds just as faint. Sam’s hand clenches just slightly. Not enough to hurt Tim but enough for Tim to look back at him, to blink back to awareness.
There’s a sigh from the kitchen. “Where’re your parents, kid?” Dean asks, leaning against the cabinet in such a way that Tim can’t look at…whatever Mrs Ashley had become.
Tim swallows “Columbia, I think? Or maybe they’re already in Russie. I’m not sure” He says and feels a spark of pride when his voice doesn’t falter.
Both men’s heads shoot up to look at each other over his head “And your nanny?” Sam asks “Or older sister” Dean suggests instead but it sounds almost awkward.
Tim shakes his head “Mrs Mac is sick and won’t be coming around until she stops coughing” he reports, echoing the words his parents had told him over the line a day or so ago.
Sam’s face does something strange as he looks at Tim, the expression something close to sympathy. But Dean’s face behind him goes blank and understanding.
Dean purses his lips “Well. Looks like we’re staying for a bit” he says, words loud enough to make them sound sure despite the way Tim can see something under the surface that seems…angry?
Sam’s jaws clench but he nods to his brother’s statement before Dean starts rifling though cupboards.
“What are you looking for?” Tim asks, launching his attention at the first thing that seems normal in this situation.
Dean waves a hand over his shoulder “I’m gonna make something to eat before we watch cartoons” he mutters and then doesn’t elaborate.
Tim should probably not be letting two strange men into his house, let alone letting them cook.
But they’d…they’d saved Tim from Mrs Ashley, he thinks, wondering if she would have hurt him if she’d known he was there. Based on the way Sam had asked if he was hurt, that wasn’t an impossibility.
So when Sam puts his hand across Tim’s back and starts to lead him up the stairs, Tim doesn’t fight the direction or the hold.
Maybe cartoons won’t be so bad.