Chapter Text
"…It'll just be a few more months, okay? We'll be home before you know it,"
A few more months. A few more months.
Tim curls himself toward the corridor's oak-panelled wall, pressing the phone even harder to his ear. As the school's only communal landline, there's not much he can do about the location, particularly the throngs of boys scarpering up and down the hallway. Shoes squeak, doors slam, and the unmistakable buzz of Summer break bounces off the walls like some stray firework.
He clamps a hand over his free ear, struggling to block out all the noise. There's still a few days left of school, but classes have already started thinning as kids get plucked out and whisked away to some ski resort or beach-front villa. Everyone in Tim's dorm started packing weeks ago. Everyone except Tim.
"But- but I thought you said the trip was almost over. Only two more weeks, right? You said-"
"I know what I said, Tim." His mom cuts him off. Her voice is clipped. Tense. Not unkind, just… tired. She sounds tired a lot these days, "some things are just out of my control, okay. Things in Berlin were wrapping up - believe me, we had every intention of flying back when we said we would,"
"-But?" Tim presses. He knows the start of an excuse when he hears one.
Janet Drake makes lots of excuses.
"But," she continues. The line crackles, warping her voice into that familiar muffled static. Yep, poor connections and dodgy signals: the hallmarks of a phonecall from halfway across the world, "your Father just got word today from the Peru team. You remember me talking about them? Well, they've finally had a breakthrough at site D - turns out we were right about the coordinate estimations for those ruins. Isn't that exciting!"
Sure. Exciting. Tim's parents were going to be away even longer now. He shouldn't be surprised, he knows he shouldn't. If anything, Tim should have expected this. Changing plans, sudden cancellations - you get used to it after a while.
Still, there's that feeling. The familiar pang of disappointment that just never fails to settle itself in his chest. It's… annoying.
"… Darling? Are you still there?"
Tim blinks, "uh, yeah, sorry mom. That's… That is cool. Really cool. Peru, huh?" He tries to sound somewhere withing the range of 'enthusiastic'. He doesn't want his mom thinking he's being childish. Because he isn't. Tim's eleven now.
And it is cool, right? His parents are archaeologists. That's cool. Much cooler than the dime-a-dozen desk jobs and minor government positions that all his dorm mates' parents have. Their parents' work doesn't end up in museums. Their parents don't win awards for discovering lost artifacts. Their parents don't spend half the year away from home…
An uncomfortable silence settles across the line, and neither end rushes to fill it. It's stuffy in the corridor, the lazy sunlight of late afternoon streaming through tall windows, capturing dust motes in the air.
By now, the hustle and bustle of the hallway has started to dwindle as luggage gets hauled off and friend groups part ways. A particularly rowdy bunch of boys passes by, all smiles and pre-summer excitement. If Tim had to guess, they look to be in the grade below him. The group is kitted out in heavy rucksacks and suitcases, the usual Bristol Boys Academy blazers switched out for some comfy graphic tees and sunglasses. The perfect fit for a few weeks at Daddy's lakeside cottage.
They fail to notice the glare aimed their way.
Finally, after what feels like forever, another crackle sounds out from the line, "I'm… sorry, Tim. I really am. Your father and I will try to call whenever we get the chance, though I can't say I have much faith in the site's signal. I'll make sure to bring you back a souvenir - something special," she pauses like she's expecting a response, but Tim isn't sure what to say, "It won't be like this next year, Tim. I promise."
Promise. Janet Drake makes lots of promises.
Tim remembers a similar one last year. He also remembers a whole Summer spent at Drake Manor with only Mrs Garrett, their housekeeper, for company. Hmm… that pouch of replica Roman coins his parents brought back from Italy... It's probably still in the back of some desk drawer in his bedroom. Maybe he'll look for them when he gets home.
Home…
Tim knows his mom can't see his face, but for some reason he schools his expression anyway, "It's fine, mom. It's work stuff, I- I get it."
"I knew you'd understand, Darling. Besides, I've heard a lot of good things about the Academy's Summer program, it sounds like fun. Oh! We bumped into Eleanor Ratcliffe the other night at a dinner party, and she was saying how much her boys love-"
Tim jolts.
Summer program? He's… staying at the academy?
But that's not… He's always… He can't…
"Wait. I-I'm not staying at the manor?" A quiet panic ripples through his tone, "What about Mrs Garrett? I thought-"
"Mrs Garrett's mother had a stroke last month. I know it's not ideal, but I've had to make some last minute arrangements whilst she's out of town. As I said, though, I'm sure you'll have fun! Maybe, you'll even make some new friends,"
The phone's hollow plastic squeaks under his grip.
"Hang on, last month? You- you mean you've had this planned for a whole month and you're only telling me now? Two days before school ends?" It comes out harsher than Tim intends, but he can't help it. The entire Summer at school? What about Gotham? Batman? How was he supposed to sneak out on his midnight adventures - take his photos, follow investigations - whilst stuck under 24/7 Academy surveillance?
He'd already had some close calls this term, alone. When the Groundsman, Mr Kraus, found his bike hidden in the bushes, Tim had been almost certain he was done for. At least then he'd had the power of numbers. With so many students, the attention of academy staff is spread thin. Over summer, though? With only a few stranded stragglers to keep an eye on, Tim has no chance of avoiding suspicion.
No sneaking out. No photos. No Batman.
"Darling, you know how busy I've been. I didn't think you'd-"
"Isn't there someone else? Can't you just find someone? Or- or I could just stay there by myself, right? Or I could-"
"Enough." Tim can hear the frustration building in her voice, bubbling under the surface, but not quite ready to boil, "Please don't be difficult, Tim. You know I wouldn't feel comfortable with you all by yourself in the manor. What kind of irresponsible mother leaves their 10-year-old home alone?"
Eleven. I'm eleven.
"Besides, your father's already sent off the paperwork. It's only for a few months. You can do that for me, right? I mean, Tim, for goodness sake, last week you were telling me you don't even like the Manor,"
She isn't wrong. Tim doesn't like Drake Manor. Summers spent at home are just as, if not more, dreary than they are here. All those rooms, all that space; day after day with nothing but his own thoughts for company.
But that's just it. Tim isn't interested in the day. For almost three years now, all he's cared about is the night. Night's on rooftops with his camera. Nights spent tracking, tracing. Nights doing what Tim loves most.
Nights that his mother can never know about.
Tim has a passion. A purpose. And it's certainly not stuck in the dusty classrooms of his boarding school.
It's on the trail of the Bats.
He hates the academy. He hates his tutors, his homework. He hates his dormmates. Every other brat stuck here with him is just another kid shoved out the way by Mommy and Daddy; out of sight, out of mind. Safely tucked away until once in a while when they can be plucked out and presented to the family.
Of course, it's not like that with his parents. He knows that. It's different. Tim's parent's are busy people. If they could take him along with them, they would. They would.
Peru, huh.
It's his mother who breaks the silence, "Tim?" she sounds sad. "You know I'd come home if I could, right? I'd give anything to see-"
"I- I'm gonna go now, Mom. I've been taking up the phone for a while and- and there's other people waiting for their turn,"
Tim stares down the corridor. It's empty. Silent. No more suitcases. No more excitement. Just Tim.
"Oh. Um, yes. Of course," she stumbles, slightly, "yes, I should probably get going too. I'm sure they're all waiting for me downstairs,"
Another charged silence across the line; another silence Tim doesn't know how to fill.
"Goodbye, Darling. I love you. I'll try to speak to you again soon," she pauses, "I'll make it up to you, Tim, I will. When we get back, after Peru. We'll do something together, the three of us. I promise.”
Promise. Janet Drake makes lots of promises.
Tim hangs up the phone, placing in back on the wall with a satisfying click. The plastic is yellowed, scuffed by countless small hands over the years, each kid waiting desperately for a different voice on the other end of the line. All those miss you's and talk to you soon's. All those promises…
Tim's sick of promises.
Plans change. He's used to that by now. Changing plans, sudden cancellations - it's what he's learned to expect. But still… A whole Summer without Gotham… A whole Summer without Batman…
Another Summer without his-
Whatever.
Whatever!
If his parents were going to go off trapesing through the backend of Peru, then so be it. Tim didn't care. Nope. Not one bit. They can do what they like.
If they can change their plans, then so can he.
Tim can make his own plans. Plans for his Summer.
Plans that certainly, most definitely, do not involve being stuck here.
••●━━━ 𖤓 ━━━●••
It's still night when Damian wakes. Moonlight filters through sheer curtains, allowing the sparce furniture in his quarters to take shape. A large chest, a bookcase, and his bed - there is little need for much else. The league was efficient like that.
The smell of smoke lingers in the room like a memory, remnants of the candle he blew out before he fell asleep, and a clear sign that he must not have been sleeping for long. Strange. Something isn't right.
It's still. Quiet. Damian knows he's not alone.
"Who is there? I demand you show-"
"Hush, my love," The voice calls from the shadows. It it calm but commanding, unmistakable in its familiarity.
Mother.
Damian can do little else but stare, confused, the grogginess of sleep cushioning his thoughts as a cloaked silhouette sweeps out from the darkness. His mother perches silently at his bedside, the moonlight capturing her features in a way that Damian doesn't quiet recognise; still beautiful, still her. But… different.
She looks scared.
She wasn't, though, of course. She couldn't be. Mother was never scared. Never.
Damian finds his face cupped between two slender hands. Her fingers are cold, the metal adorning them like ice against his skin. He doesn't like how it feels.
"You must get up and get dressed. Quickly. There is little time."
"Mother? What's-"
"Our plans have changed, Damian," She pulls her son's face close to her own, their noses almost touching. Her green eyes flicker wildly.
"We must leave. Tonight."