Chapter Text
June 6th, 1911
Some people, Tim believes, simply are not destined for success.
This is a truth he’s reckoned with for a long time now, ever since his father sat him upon his knee some fifteen odd years ago, eyes glimmering; telling him heroic tales of his grandfather, great-grandfather, and the many other Drake men who had come before him for the very first time.
As a young boy, Timothy was completely mystified by his father's knowledge of their family’s past, often wasting entire school holidays in the man’s study, listening intently as he recounted the entire story over and over again until it rang in his ears eternally. The tale was told exactly the same each time Tim asked for it, and his favorite part was the very end: when father would inevitably end up coughing through a preening review of the Drake family tree, focusing on each ancestor and his success. Tim could tell his father held great pride in the “intelligence, diplomacy, and honor” (his own words; hacked up pathetically, as he would fail not to weep at the thought) that they descended from and, while the boy thought such a reputation was a grand thing, it wasn’t that which excited him so about the end. It was how, as the rant subsided, for just a moment, Jack Drake would look at his son, examining him from head to toe and offering one of his rare smiles along with a firm nod.
“You’ll do well, my boy,” he’d promise Tim. “You are the amalgamation of hundreds of men who did spectacularly. It is in one’s blood.”
At such a tender age, all it took was that nod of approval from his father to force the swell of joy through the boy’s bones. Father may have been a busy man who was far too occupied with paperwork and land purchase to meet his family anywhere outside of the four walls which held his desk, cabinet, glass pen, and ink pot; but when he looked at Tim like that, the way he looked the day he secured the canal property upstate, the way he looked at mother in the wedding photo that hangs in the parlor, he knew he was loved wholly and eternally, no matter how often his parents were around to present it.
Many years have passed since Tim was small and naive, seeking out his father's time and, admittedly divided, attention. He’s grown too old for storytime, and there is no use in Jack entertaining the idea; there hasn’t been in quite some time. Boarding school and business kept his small family effectively separated for nine months of the year; the sort of distance that cannot be made up for in biweekly letters, the occasional visit, or a month vacationing by the sea. So now, as each twist of a grand locomotive’s wheels pushes him closer and closer to home, diploma in hand, Tim is quite pleased with himself.
It was only days ago that Timothy Drake graduated from Oakland, California’s Bertinelli Preparatory School for Boyswith shining marks and an acceptance letter from Columbia University in hand. This will be his final time making the days long train journey across the country; this time, he will arrive in New York and stay there, with his family. There were plenty of friends and mentors whom Tim was depressed not to be seeing again come Autumn, but his excitement far outweighed those negative emotions. For the first time since he was small enough to sit in his father’s lap, he will be living exclusively at home with his parents. Now, with lessons out of the way and his mind already developing a cunning sense for business, Tim may finally have that look of pride bestowed upon him once again; may finally be a part of one of the tight-knit family units he’d seen his chums from Oakland enjoy.
It isn’t fair to accuse Jack and Janet Drake of not loving their son, he thinks. Tim knows, both logically and emotionally, that they do, and excessively so. His lamenting on their absence, while not untrue, is simply a result of the ugly excitements that any young person is bound to feel when away from those he cares for so often. There were nights, at the preparatory, when Tim would lie in bed, restlessly dreaming of reunions flushed with warm embraces and frantic kisses; the dreams were so lovely that Tim found waking in the morning to be the most lonesome feeling in the world. There is no use in resenting his parents for their success, because it is that precisely which prepares Tim for his own so effortlessly; and he wasn’t companionless at school anyway.
Until last September, Tim’s greatest pal in the world was Sebastian Ives, who also went to Bertinelli’s, and even beyond him, there was great company to be kept at the school. Such consolations did little to ease his aching heart, nevertheless.
A loud racket from the body of the train snapped Tim out of his stupor, and he didn’t allow himself to reckon over Ives or his parents any longer, fishing through his knapsack for his current read; the dime novel he bought at the train station. This was the most recent in a very, very long line of the popular Detective Wayne pulp fiction series. While the writing was arguably juvenile and certainly below his usual literary pursuits, he had to admit that these silly stories and mysteries made for great entertainment. Detective Bruce Wayne was a compelling personality and, unlike most pulp fiction characters, one could tell that he was undeniably written by someone of genuine intelligence. His mysterious cases were not so easily solved, yet always rooted in probable reality; Tim enjoyed testing himself by trying to hypothesize what may have happened before Wayne himself figured it out.
The novel seemed perfectly exceptional, but he found himself unable to focus as the train's racket turned to the chattering of twisting metal. He hadn’t thought much of the noise beyond it being so distracting until, in a dramatic incline of volume, the vehicle gave one final defiant huff before shuddering to a stop. For some ten minutes, Tim watched as workers rushed back and forth across the train’s wagons, from the coal room to beyond and back. It was another fifteen of complete silence before the conductor emerged, pushing through each cabin and announcing the dreadful news; the train was broken down. A quick peek out of the window showed them to be in the midst of homesteading lands, which was truly unfortunate, for these settlements tended to be quite spread out and isolated, meaning there could be nothing but cows and wheat fields for miles till one finally reached a town or any other sort of society.
He didn’t have long to worry, though, before a steward knocked his wooden cane on the door of Tim’s cabin, “If sir would be so kind as to gather one’s belongings, we are preparing to escort all passengers and cargo to a nearby town only a mile-or-so out, should our maps be correct.”
Tim nodded, “Thank you. Wherever are we headed?”
He hoped it would be somewhere memorable, such as Wichita, where there was bound to be a telegraph office and back-up train ready to rescue Tim and whisk him home. Last he had heard, they were around half a day away from Topeka, so he allowed himself to feel somewhat confident in his estimation.
To his immense disappointment, the steward only frowned, ushering Tim to gather his book, camera, clothing, and et cetera.
“Smallville, Kansas, sir. A new town; recently petitioned, I’m told.”
Getting the exact response he hadn’t wanted, Tim detested having ever even asked. He gathered the last of his stuff and sighed, steeling himself for a long walk and an even longer wait.