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Tim knew it was his fault that he ran out of food. After all, he had been living on the exact same amount of money for food and weekly meal drop-offs for several years. It didn’t matter that he had been more hungry this month than usual or that he had wanted food after his sports extracurriculars.

After all, he wasn’t a stranger to being hungry, not really. Sure, he didn’t know true hunger, the one that couldn’t be sated because there was nothing to sate it with, but the handful of meals Mrs. Mac brought by on Saturdays could only be stretched so far and either his parents weren’t fully sure how much allowance was needed when it needed to be spent on a month’s worth of groceries or they were trying to toughen him up.

Either way, the facts were: Tim had ran out of food for the week and the month, which meant that for the next two weeks, he would have to rely on Mrs. Mac’s delivery and for the next few days he would have to be…creative.

Tim wasn’t a very creative person.

Everyone always told him that. “It’s a good thing,” his father had told him when his art teacher had said that Tim had stuck too close to the assignment and hadn’t worked in the ‘spirit of art’. Whatever that was. “You’re analytical, Timothy. That is worth much more in our world than creativity.”

Naturally, that had not meant that he had been exempt from punishment for not having an A, but his grounding had been done with a wink on Jack’s part and unlike other times when he’d done worse things, they didn’t even check in to see if he was sticking to it even with them gone.

His takeaway had been that art didn’t matter.

Despite that, he indulged in his photography extracurricular. It was a guilty pleasure, so to speak and as long as he went to a ‘manly’ sport, his parents ignored his Gymnastics and photography classes. Sure, Jack had probably hoped for something like football, but his mixed martial arts interest seemed to appease him enough not to push for another sport.

Tim’s photography teacher said he was talented, but the boy thought that was probably because he didn’t know how much practice Tim had. After all, he couldn’t very well tell him that he’d been sneaking out for years to photograph Batman. It wasn’t a very suitable hobby for a ten year old and even less for someone younger.

But even then, photography wasn’t creative.

Sure, his teacher seemed to think it was, but Tim honestly thought the man was just deluding himself to make himself feel better about having failed out of art school and having to pursue the easier art form. After all, photography, good photography, the kind that got Tim called talented, was just about knowing the right parameters. The right settings and angles and ratios. It was entirely rational and Tim loved it.

Maybe, this problem could be approached analytically instead of creatively.

He just needed to think about it.

Tim closed the empty fridge with determination. It had been beeping for what was likely a couple of minutes now, but he had been too deep in thought to notice.

The boy filled a glass with water to calm his achingly empty stomach a bit and then made his way back upstairs to his room, specifically to the little whiteboard his parents had gotten him when it became clear that Tim was very, very good at any and all classes involving maths.

It was so he could stay on a fast track to college, having been put in classes two years above his actual grade, but today he would use it for…extracurriculars.

Surely it could be called that?

It wasn’t like his parents would see the calculations, until they were back in one and a half months, they would be long wiped away. Besides, Tim was reasonably sure that even if they did, they would be pleased with his resourcefulness.

Now to set the parameters of the problem.

Neatly, organised in bullet points, he wrote down:

Humans need food
Food is acquired through money
I have no money

Right. So what he needed to do was either find a way to make money or find something he could exchange for food that wasn’t money.

For a moment, he toyed with the thought of selling something, but he dismissed that immediately. Tim didn’t have many possessions that weren’t absolutely needed to excel at school and he didn’t think that the ratty skateboard he had found half-broken in a dumpster and had fixed himself, would get a lot of money. Neither would the small collection of figurines that he too had either rescued from the trash or won off classmates whenever they did their stupidly easy betting games.

Selling any of his parents’ possessions was out of the question as well. The first thing his parents did whenever they came home was check if everything was still whole. Only then did they properly greet Tim. As such, he reasoned, they would realise immediately.

Working might work (ha).

Some of his classmates did babysitting.

The problem with that was that while his school work wasn’t very hard, it was still quite a lot and Tim wasn’t sure if he could guarantee straight As if he cut into his study time. He’d even had to dial way down from following Batman and Robin when his English teacher had warned him that she was about to drop his grade if Tim didn’t start putting more effort into his essays.

Which was stupid, in his opinion, since essays were opinion-based, so how would she know how much effort Tim had put into his opinion?

Really, all of Tim’s opinions were very founded, so they were all full of effort.

Anyways. So maybe the money approach wouldn’t work.

Unfortunately, they did not live in a trading society though and Tim wasn’t sure what he would even trade for food or who with. The only one near him were the Waynes on one side and the-

The Waynes.

Tim froze, marker half-shaking in the air from where he’d been about to note down that trading wouldn’t work.

There were many valuable things in the world. Objects, sure, like the invaluable vase Tim had broken when he stumbled in the main hall at eight that had cost him a month without any of his books and electronics, but also words. Secrets.

Tim knew secrets.

Tim knew a lot of secrets, actually.

Figuring out who the first Robin had been and from there Batman and then the second Robin had been so much fun that Tim had started to dig around for other superheroes. Superman had been easy, really. The man needed a far better disguise if he didn’t want people to just…put it together. Then again, most people hadn’t, so maybe that was just Tim’s arrogance speaking.

His parents often said that his intelligence tended to make him arrogant and that nobody liked a know-it-all, so Tim made sure to only answer in class when at least three others had already tried or the teacher specifically picked him.

From Superman, he’d gone down the Justice League lineup and let’s just say, he was a rather proficient stalker by the time he was done.

Or rather observer, as he preferred to call it.

Either way, secrets like this were very valuable. One time, Tim had looked up how much people would pay to know who Batman was and the numbers had been dizzyingly high, even for someone who had grown up knowing his family was more than rich.

Most of those people were likely villains though, so Tim had just exhaled and closed the site.

Now though…surely, he could trade the secret for some food?

How much was the secret worth?

Tim wrote down a number, a very low number, only a couple of million dollars. Then, he felt presumptuous and erased it again. One million? No, that still seemed too high. But if he sold it for too much under its value, Mr. Wayne might think he was making fun of him. Maybe…10’000? That was still a whole lot of money, but also much more adequate for a ten year old.

How many meals could be made with 10’000? Tim started to do the maths, then stared at the way too high number and started erasing it again.

Alright.

500 meals. That was good, yes. That meant that he could maybe have a meal every other day and last two years. After that, he was twelve and would maybe have a higher allowance. He could even put some of his current allowance away if he had meals every other day on top of Mrs. Mac’s Saturday delivery.

Really, Tim only needed meals until the end of this month, but he wasn’t exactly a proficient cook and at his last doctor visit, his doctor had pointed out some deficiencies.

He’d told his parents, of course, but Janet had simply told him to behave like the responsible young man he was and see that his food intake was more nutritious. Which was what he was doing now, right?

Alright, so he would go to Mr. Wayne and tell him…

Tell him what?

That he wanted food or else he was going to make his identity public?

That sounded an awful lot like blackmail and blackmail was rather illegal and doing something illegal would make Tim a criminal and Batman arrested criminals.

Then again, would he really arrest Tim when the chances were that Tim would then reveal his secret in juvie?

Well, Tim would likely not even go to Juvie, unless his parents decided he needed the lesson and wouldn’t bail him out. Which was…a big risk, to be fair and definitely something his parents would do. Not even considering that he might be grounded for months and Tim would really prefer not to have to sit in his room silently for months, especially not hungry.

His stomach growled.

Tim tiredly rubbed at his temples. Alright, he just needed to think, he could do that.

He got another glass of water. His stomach gurgled.

The boy sat on his bed, legs crossed and eyes fixed on the scribbles on the whiteboard. The beat bullet points were surrounded by notes and numbers and it looked more like a lunatic’s ravings now than a good student’s thought progress.

Alright, so blackmail was out. He wasn’t trying to extort Batman- eh, Mr. Wayne, he was trying to do a trade offer, trying to sell him something.

Of course.

Tim jumped up.

A contract.

He needed a contract.

Hurriedly, he made his way to his laptop. After several hours of research, wild typing and a couple more glasses of water, the sun was just lowering and Tim was holding a freshly printed contract.

Alright then.

No time like today.

The walk was long, longer still when he was starting to feel slightly faint with hunger.

It took for him to ring the bell to question what he was doing.

Was he insane?

A contract would not make this seem any less like blackmail. Batman would arrest him and his parents would kill him and sure, then Tim wouldn’t have to worry about making it to Saturday without collapsing, but he was also kind of enjoying his summer vacation right now. It had only just started on Monday, it would be too early to abandon it now.

Before he could turn around and flee, the door opened.

A stern man blinked down at him. He had graying hair and was dressed in a staff uniform. Ah yes, Tim remembered the butler from a gala a year back. Not his name though.

The boy straightened. Shoulders back, chin up, just like his mother had taught him. A long nail under his chin as she had looked him in the eyes and said: “You are a Drake, Timothy. Act like it. Nobody likes a slouch.”

His gala smile was summoned easily. “Good evening,” he greeted. “I’m Timothy Drake, your neighbour.”

The butler nodded with nothing more than a blink, smiling politely. “Yes, I recognise you, Master Timothy. It is nice to formally meet you again. I’m Alfred Pennyworth, Master Wayne’s butler.”

It had been a while since he’d last been called Timothy. 37 days to be exact. His teachers thankfully called him Tim despite his parents’ insistence on him using his proper name everywhere. They didn’t need to know, they didn’t exactly show up to any parent-teacher conferences anyway. They usually sent Millie, a nice secretary of Drake industries who had perfected smiling and nodding at the praise Timothy received and who knew sentences such as “Mr. and Mrs. Drake are aware of Timothy’s difficulties with children his age and they are making sure he is making friends in his extracurriculars.” which was good because it appeased his teachers.

“Can I help you, Master Timothy?”

Ah, yes. He’d been in a conversation. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Pennyworth. I was hoping to be able to speak to Mr. Wayne?”

Pennyworth lifted an eyebrow. “Mr. Wayne is still out at the moment, I’m afraid. Maybe I could help?”

Tim shook his head. “I would much rather speak to him personally, please. When will he be back?”

The man looked slightly taken aback. “In about two hours. Him and Master Jason will be back for a slightly late dinner.”

Oh, dinner. Tim’s stomach growled, but he refused to look embarrassed by it. Surely they butler hadn’t noticed. “Then I shall wait until after dinner,” he said politely.”

“Right here?” Pennyworth asked when the boy made no sign of moving.

“Yes,” Tim replied and then, when he realised how impolite it was to impose like that, he added, “well, I shall leave the premises, I would not want to trespass.”

Especially since he was holding a contract that may or may not be blackmail.

“Would you like to come inside for a bit of tea while you wait?” the butler asked.

Tim hesitated. It was very rude to impose and this was even more that than simply waiting in front of someone’s front doors. But also, it was rude to deny an invitation. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” Tim replied reluctantly. He would much rather wait inside with some tea than outside, but he also didn’t think he could make the walk back to Drake manor and then come here again, not when he felt all shaky.

“It would not at all be a bother,” Pennyworth assured him and Tim caved embarrassingly fast.

“Oh well, then I would appreciate some tea, yes.”

The butler smiled and let him in, taking his light summer jacket and leading him up into a very homey kitchen. He gestured for him to sit down at the counter and Tim did so rather gratefully, carefully putting the contract down face-down.

Should he have brought an envelope?

He should have, shouldn’t he? How did one even present a contract to someone? Tim should have researched more. Oh god, he should have researched more.

Before he could spiral, Pennyworth asked him what tea he would like. “Uhm,” Tim said intelligently. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had tea. Maybe when he’d been sick and Mrs. Mac had come every day for a week to fret over him?

“Whatever you would recommend, Mr. Pennyworth,” Tim replied with his most winning smile.

Pennyworth hummed. “Please, call me Alfred,” he said, turning around to move various things around and heat up water.

“If you’ll call me Tim,” the boy replied, almost cheekily, before he remembered his manners. He bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood. All he could do was hope that because this visit involved the Batman secret, his parents would never get a report of his atrocious behaviour at Wayne Manor.

“Very well, Master Tim,” Alfred said easily. Huh.

Tim tapped his fingers against the stone counter, deep in thought, only looking up again when the man slid a large plate with snacks over to him. It held sliced bananas, sliced apples, sliced oranges, crackers with cheese, little cucumber sandwiches and…ugh, cookies.

Tim’s stomach growled again, but he hesitated. “Is this for me?” he asked, confused.

“I figured it was around time for dinner at your house and I wouldn’t want you to starve while you wait for Master Bruce,” Alfred replied, steeping the tea. “I was unsure what you liked so I did a little of everything, but you don’t have to eat everything. Just take whatever you feel like.”

Oh, he’d be eating everything.

“Thank you, sir,” he said politely, before taking one of the little sandwiches and eating it in one bite.

The boy forced himself to slow down after that. It would be suspicious if he was ravenous and it was also incredibly impolite. Instead, he took a few bites and sipped his tea, making small talk with the butler while the man cooked. It had the added bonus that his stomach could settle under the onslaught of food.

He left the oranges.

“I’m sorry, I don’t much like citrus fruit,” he said apologetically.

His parents would have made sure he had eaten it if they were here. If he wasted food, he wasn’t allowed anything else until he had made up for it, but Tim really, really hated the squishy, stringy texture of oranges and the sour taste of all citrus fruit.

“No worries at all, Master Tim.” Alfred simply took the plate and packed the oranges away, probably for someone else later.

Tim relaxed slightly.

“I could help you cook,” he offered shyly. “Since I’m already imposing quite a bit.”

Besides, he liked to cook, the rare few times he’d done it, mostly the handful of times he’d been allowed to go over to his friend Simon’s house before his parents had found out that he was on a scholarship and was from Crime Alley.

He’d not been allowed to ‘associate’ with him after that. It had made Tim sad, at least right after he had looked up the word associate and had fully grasped what he’d been forbidden from doing.

It was also why he wasn’t really allowed at the Wayne manor. Jason was a Crime Alley kid too, after all and Dick was a ‘dirty circus boy’ and some other choice words that had made Tim feel sick inside.

Yes, he really, really hoped the Batman secret would prevent his parents from ever knowing he’d been here.

“You’re not imposing,” Alfred corrected, but he set the boy to chopping carrots for his Spaghetti Bolognese.

Tim did his best to cut them evenly, but they came out horribly uneven.

“Perfect, thank you, Master Tim,” Alfred said. Tim thought he had to be lying, but Alfred tipped it into the pan without changing anything about them, so maybe he’d meant it.

“Will you set the table, please?” the butler requested. “For three.”

Tim obediently got out plates from where the man indicated and set to setting the table, which was how Mr. Wayne and Jason found him.

“Alfred, we’re- oh, hi there.” Mr. Wayne stopped walking to stare at Tim.

Tim stared back unblinkingly. Eye contact was important, his parents had taught him that. It had been an intense lecture and an even more upsetting lesson when they had realised that Tim needed to be taught and didn’t just know how to hold eye contact by himself. Which was not normal and Jack had warned him not to tell anyone how long they’d needed to teach him.

Tim, still crying from the hour of harsh words and yelled frustration, had agreed immediately. He didn’t want people to think he was stupid and his parents had said this would make him stupid.

“Master Tim would like to talk to you,” Alfred commented.

Oops, Tim should have said something instead of just staring. Had he zoned out again?

“In private,” Tim added, somewhat more timid now that Batman- Mr. Wayne was actually in front of him. He was a very tall man.

“After dinner,” Alfred added. “Master Tim will join, of course.”

“I…will?” Tim asked in confusion.

“Of course, you have already set the table for three.”

“What about you, sir?” he asked Alfred, but Jason laughed.

“He doesn’t join us,” he explained, the first thing he’d said, before moving around Tim to go sit down.

“Unless you are still full from your snack plate,” Alfred said leadingly.

Well…no. Tim could eat and the spaghetti smelled absolutely delicious.

Tim sat down.

“I’m Jason,” the other boy said when Mr. Wayne elbowed him subtly.

“I’m Timothy Drake,” Tim replied automatically.

“I know who you are.” It wasn’t said meanly, not exactly, but Tim didn’t think the boy liked him very much. Which was fair, considering that Tim had been instructed not to interact with him and had thus turned around several times and hastily chosen a different path, both at galas and at school, upon seeing the other. Jason, despite being four years older than him, was only a grade above him, after all.

“What did you want to talk about, Timothy?” Mr. Wayne asked politely while Alfred went to fetch the food.

“I would prefer to do it after dinner, sir,” Tim replied politely.

They tried to ask him some more questions, about school and his family, but after more short, polite answers, Jason moved to chatter about a book he was reading instead.

Tim was happy to simply listen to his Robin talk, trying to hide how giddy it made him to eat with Batman and Robin. The Batman and The Robin.

Far too soon, dinner was over and Tim followed Mr. Wayne quietly, his contract clutched in his hand, his heart beating out of his chest.

“Alright,” Mr. Wayne said with a smile that was probably supposed to make Tim feel more comfortable but ended up putting him even more on edge. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I have prepared a contract,” Tim replied, trying to sound grown up.

“A contract?” Mr. Wayne asked in confusion, but he accepted the slightly rumpled piece of paper when Tim extended it.

“A business proposal,” Tim said.

Mr. Wayne read silently. His face was scarily blank and Tim was feeling more restless with every second that passed. He tried to calm himself down by breathing deeply, but it didn’t help.

He knew what the man was reading, of course. He’d made sure to make it sound like a contract. All ‘This party agrees’ and ‘Under the circumstances of’. He’d not signed it though. Tim wasn’t stupid enough to sign a blackmail contract before Mr. Wayne did.

It took longer than Tim thought strictly necessary for the man to finish.

“This is quite a serious accusation, Timothy,” Mr. Wayne said calmly.

Tim tried not to flinch.

“Why exactly do you think that I’m Batman?”

Tim fiddled with his fingers. “Well, I uhm…” This was like giving a presentation, right? Tim was good at giving presentations. “When I was very little, my parents took me to the circus. I met the Graysons and saw them plummet to their death.”

Mr. Wayne’s face went even more blank if possible and Tim lowered his eyes.

“The man said that only the three of them could do a quadruple flip, so when I saw Robin do it, it wasn’t very hard to figure out that he was Dick Grayson. From that, it was only a small jump to you being Batman, Sir. I figured out that Dick became Nightwing, which meant that the new Robin was someone else, something I already suspected, since he was smaller and had a different temperament. From there, I figured he was Jason.”

He was about to launch into a description of how he had found out the Justice League’s identities, but Mr. Wayne started speaking.

“I see. Those are very good deductions, Timothy.”

Tim blushed slightly at the praise.

“So uhm, yes,” he said. “You have my proposal.”

“Yes,” Mr. Wayne agreed, looking at Tim so intently that the boy had to resist apologising. That wasn’t very business proper. It would, however, have been polite. Tim bit his lips.

“Why exactly do you need to trade the secret for food?” Mr. Wayne asked.

He said need, not want. Tim felt a small spark of validation. “I only need food every other day,” he replied. “Mrs. Mac brings meals on Saturdays and I can stretch them about half the week. I also have my allowance, which I usually buy food from, but my doctor said I should eat more nutritious meals and I’m not sure how to make those. Oh also, for the next two weeks, I kind of maybe need a meal every day.”

He felt the need to explain more, felt the rambling bubble up in his throat, but he swallowed it. Adults hated it when children rambled. Plus Tim rarely had anything interesting to say, according to his father.

“Why?” Mr. Wayne asked again.

“Oh uhm…” Tim flushed. “I was irresponsible with my allowance.”

Mr. Wayne nodded. “How so?”

Tim really wished that Mr. Wayne would stop asking so many embarrassing questions. He didn’t exactly like admitting that he was failing at being responsible.

“I was a little more hungry this month, especially after sports. I think uhm…well, I researched it and I think it’s because I grew quite a bit. So yes, anyways, I ran out of money.”

“What about your parents?” the man asked.

Tim furrowed his brows. “What about my parents?” he asked in confusion.

“Couldn’t they buy more food?”

“Oh, they’re at a dig in Peru,” Tim replied easily.

“Couldn’t they have sent more money?”

“I’m not allowed to be greedy,” he explained. It should have been obvious, but maybe Mr. Wayne just wanted to be very clear on all the contract’s points and checking how much food Tim would need was important for him to be sure what he was agreeing to.

“What about your caretaker?”

This was getting really confusing. Was Mr. Wayne not listening? “They’re at a dig,” Tim repeated, trying not to speak too slowly. His mother said that it made him sound patronising and children were not allowed to be patronising. She’d said that if he did it again when she was in earshot, he would lose his extracurricular privileges.

Tim tried hard not to be patronising.

“I meant your nanny,” Mr. Wayne specified.

Oh. A misunderstanding.

“I don’t need a nanny,” he told the man proudly. “I’m already ten. I haven’t needed one since I was eight.”

Mr. Wayne’s face grew colder, but he looked down at the contract again before Tim could hope to interpret it.

“How did you figure that the secret was worth 10K?” the man asked.

Tim tried not to squirm in his seat.

“You’re not in trouble, Tim,” Mr. Wayne assured him. “I’m simply curious.”

“I think it’s worth a lot more,” he offered sheepishly, “but I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

Mr. Wayne’s lips twitched.

He pulled out a pen and signed with a flourish. Tim’s heart did a happy little skip.

“Your proposal is accepted. You should sign.”

Tim searched Mr. Wayne’s face, but then reached out to accept the pen and the contract and signed. He had a pretty signature, his mother had made sure of it.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wayne,” Tim said with a bright smile, a sentence he had heard his father say before over the phone, and the man’s lips twitched again.

“And you, Timothy.”

“Please, call me Tim,” Tim requested politely.

“Well, you must call me Bruce then. Especially since you will be joining us for all meals during summer vacation and then breakfast and dinner during school time. You can ride with Alfred and Jason, if they are so amenable.” He stood.

Tim scrambled after him. “No, sir, I only require a meal every other day,” he pointed out. Had the man misread the contract?

“Well, I figure since you undersold your secret’s value by a lot, I should be fair.”

That made sense, he supposed. It was probably a matter of pride. Tim understood, his parents had taught him not to be seen accepting charity. It was embarrassing and brought shame on their name.

Mr. Wayne must not want shame on the Wayne name just because Tim was a little kid and scared of asking for what it was really worth.

“Oh, alright,” he said shyly.

They were approaching the kitchen again where Alfred was cleaning.

“Alfred, Timo- Tim will be joining us for meals quite regularly in the future. Please make sure you know his preferences and allergies?”

Tim shifted slightly. “I’m not complicated,” he promised quickly. “I’m only allergic to shrimp, I’ll eat anything else.”

“So you have nothing you don’t like?” Alfred asked mildly.

He had a lot he didn’t like. He hated the texture of citrus fruits and mushrooms and zucchini and certain types of biscuits. He hated the taste of raw tomatoes and a lot of types of potatoes.

“Like oranges,” Alfred added.

Tim shifted again. “I suppose I have some preferences,” he admitted with a shy look at Mr. Wayne.

The man chuckled. “Alfred, can you drive him home when you’re done? I have work to do.”

The butler nodded. “Very well, Master Bruce.”

“Goodbye Tim. I will give you a copy of the contract when you join us for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Tim replied politely.

Breakfast. He wasn’t sure when he had last had breakfast.

“Alright, Master Tim, please share your preferences,” Alfred said, still drying.

Tim hesitated, but after an encouraging nod, he took a deep breath and haltingly began speaking.