Work Text:
28 January - Hotan Airport, China
“English? Do you speak English?”
English?
What?
Tummy hurts.
Lots.
Tired.
Where?
Lady talking.
Who lady?
Looks worried.
Try talk.
“English.”
Lady smile.
Holds bag.
Bag mine.
Let go.
Mine.
Protect bag.
Lady open bag.
Blue book.
“Alvin Draper? That’s your name?”
Who?
“Nu-uh...”
“No?”
“Not me...”
Lady frowns.
Shows picture.
Lots squiggles.
Me.
“This is you?”
“Me.”
“But your name isn’t Alvin?”
Dunno.
Shh.
“What is your name?”
Dunno.
Don’t remember.
What name.
Who me.
Dunno anything.
Scary.
Eyes wet.
Cheeks wet.
“Okay, don’t cry.”
Lady wipes face.
Better.
“Do you know how old you are?”
Shake head.
Oh.
Dizzy.
Hold tummy.
Lady move shirt.
Ow.
Hand red.
“Okay, darling. You’ve broken one of your stitches. Did you have an operation?”
What?
Ow.
No touch.
Bad.
Lady stands.
No.
Hand catches sleeve.
Don’t go.
“Who’s looking after you?”
Look after?
Help?
Shadow.
Big tall.
Wide strong.
Safe.
“Big.”
“... Okay. Where are you going?”
Know that.
Heart knows.
“Home.”
Lady smiles.
Good.
Lady stays.
“Where’s home?”
“HOME.”
“We’re trying to help you get home.”
“HOME NOW!”
Lady talking.
Blink.
Talking into radio.
Who’s she?
Get a grip.
“Hey, I need help with an unaccompanied minor at gate two. We might need a paramedic. He’s confused and bleeding from his abdomen. Looks like he’s had major surgery. Mid-teens, maybe.”
No.
Blink.
Focus.
Why am I on the floor?
I was checking my bag.
Did I collapse?
Shit.
Where am I?
Focus.
An airport worker was crouched by Tim’s side. Holding his passport. Neat black hair. Whispering into her radio in rapid Uyghur. Good. He was still in Xinjiang. Gate two. Same airport. Thank fuck. Sitting on the floor, back against a wall. Fine. His eyes ached. Was I crying? Tim looked down. Blood on his shirt. Wet on his hand. He must have pulled a stitch.
He’d closed the stab wound in a rush yesterday. Ra’s had been kind, apparently. When Tim woke in the desert, no idea where or when he was, Ra’s had left him with his backpack. He probably would have died without the first aid kit. Breathing had been painful but fine. No obvious head wound. That was the end of the good list. Long abdominal incision. Separate wound at his side. Bruising around both wrists. More bruising higher up his thighs. Pain between his legs. Pain throughout his torso that didn’t match either visible injury. His upper abdomen was on fire. His clothes were saturated with blood. Dizzy lying down, worse upright. Significant blood loss. Awful nausea. When he first stood, he’d vomited blood. He’d tried to drink. Choked. Swallowing hurt. Nothing immediately fatal once the stab wound was closed. Hopefully. Good enough. He’d ask Leslie about the operative wound when he was home. Home. Tim would have been stranded if Ra’s had kept his fake passport. The file from Ra’s he’d paid for was rammed into the bag. The backpack the woman was holding. Fuck.
“Hey...”
She looked.
Moved closer.
Good.
“I’m okay...”
“You need a doctor.”
“I’m okay. I had an operation a few days ago. The stitches keep ripping. My Dad’s in Beijing. I need to catch my flight. I have a follow up.”
She was buying it.
Good.
“You didn’t know your name.”
I was conscious?
I moved. I must have been.
I don’t remember anything.
Fuck my brain.
Three weeks, now this?
Whatever Ra’s dosed me with was strong. Bastard.
“Yeah, the meds make me loopy sometimes. I’m Alvin Draper.”
I need to tox screen myself.
Prioritise.
I can deal with that when Bruce is safe.
When I’m home.
I just need to get on that flight.
“Has the plane to Beijing left yet?”
“No, not yet. I’ll take you to the gate. We’ll let Beijing know you’re coming and that you need help finding your Dad. Someone will meet you when you arrive.”
Shit.
~☆♡☆♡☆~
28 January – Beijing International Airport, China
Tim couldn’t remember the flight to Beijing. The turbulence from landing had jolted him back into his body. It made sense. He was exhausted. Recovering from blood loss. His fingers still felt too far away. Disconnected and fuzzy. Hands unresponsive. Security had been waiting when he exited the plane. Fuck. They were ready to take him to a father who wasn’t here. Wasn’t anywhere. Bruce. He needed to get the file over to someone. Someone he could trust. No-one here, obviously. Clark Kent was his first choice. If Tim could just get home, he could call Kon and have him manage the file handover. Tim missed him. Kon would haul his ass home, if he wasn’t six thousand miles away and oblivious to the pain gripping Tim’s abdomen. Sharp pain stole his breath. I don’t want to die here. No one even knows where I am.
Where I am.
The airport blurred around him.
Security marched him to a bench.
Told him to wait.
Wait.
Blinked.
New airport.
Wait.
Bright signs.
Lots people.
Stay.
Why?
Smells nice.
Follow nice smell.
Busy.
Lots smells.
Lots rooms.
Different colours.
Least loud.
Least smell.
Least people.
That one.
Go in.
Many shelves.
Too many.
Shiny packets.
Colourful bottles.
Oh.
Soft things.
Animals.
Some big.
Some not.
Lots colours.
Green.
Soft.
Touch.
“Do you like the dinosaur? It’s my favourite.”
Hand away quick.
Too fast.
Feel dizzy-sick.
Yuck.
“Long flight, sir?”
Dunno.
“You’re not in trouble.”
Green soft.
Want.
“You look like you’re having a rough day.”
“...rough...”
“Yeah. Do you like the dino?”
“Love.”
“Do you want him?”
What?
“It can be our secret, don’t tell my boss.”
Lady take green.
Give me.
Hug.
Soft.
Safe.
Mine?
“Here, let me get you a snack too. You’re all skin and bones.”
Shop good.
Lady nice.
Dino mine.
Exploring good.
~☆♡☆♡☆~
30 January – Newark Airport, USA
Tim remembered getting on the plane. Good. Remembered getting off it. Thank fuck. There were some big gaps before the flight and during it that Timothy was choosing to not investigate. He’d acquired a stuffed dinosaur before the flight, apparently. Found it stuffed in his bag beside the folder and an empty protein shake bottle. Tim figured the dinosaur must have been one of those weird in-flight freebies. The more he looked at it, the more nauseous he felt. He’d keep it though. It could be his well-done-on-not-dying souvenir.
The closer Tim got to home, the harder it was to keep up the not dying thing. New Jersey. He was in the right country, the right fucking state. He’d bought a hoodie at the airport to hide the blood seeping through his t-shirt. Another stitch had ripped on the flight. Tim was fucking exhausted, sick of being sticky with blood, and was desperate to drink but his throat was an uncooperative bastard. He was miserable. He wanted to go home. He had one final task.
Outside the airport, leaning against a railing, was Kon. Everything in Tim loosened at the sight. Safe, strong, beautiful, wonderful, out of this world Kon. Tim knew he’d made it when he staggered to the rail and Kon caught him by the elbow.
“Woah, dude. You okay?”
Tim ignored him, already fishing in his bag to pull out the slightly crushed folder and a thumb drive. Kon glanced at the dinosaur toy occupying half the bag.
“Why do you have a dinosaur?”
“Airport thing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means focus, Kon. Can you get your clone daddy to save my dad?”
“Fuck off, Clark isn’t my Dad. Obviously we’ll help you, Tim. Come on, what the fuck happened to you?”
“Not the priority.”
“Not your priority, darlin’. It’s mine.”
Oh my God, shut up.
Tim rubbed at his cheeks. Hot. Are they red? Surely bleeding out can at least have one fucking benefit and hide my shame. Kon was smiling a little. Still looked concerned. Screw that.
“Kon, just... help B then we can catch up?”
“I’ll hold you to that, Tim.”
~☆♡☆♡☆~
31 January – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
New room.
Nice room.
Familiar.
Not sure why.
Don’t remember.
Door no open.
Key up high.
Key door?
Don’t know.
Alone.
No nice lady.
No shop.
No people.
Just me.
Oh.
Plane bag.
Dino.
Friend.
Tummy roar.
Roar like dino.
Hungry.
Where food?
Don’t know.
Wait.
Thirsty.
Find tap.
Where cup?
Tap on.
Mouth under.
Drink.
Hair wet.
Hoodie wet.
Want off.
Try.
Tummy tug.
OW.
Ow ow ow ow ow ow.
Dizzy.
Sick on floor.
Pants wet.
Wet why?
Itchy.
Help?
Alone.
Wait.
Cry.
Cry didn’t work.
Still only me.
~☆♡☆♡☆~
1 February – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
“Come on, you can’t still be mad at me for suggesting therapy, Timmy.”
Door talk.
Happens lots.
Timmy?
Who?
Only me here.
Door want someone.
No one else inside.
Timmy me?
Thump thump.
“Nobody’s seen you in weeks.”
Knock knock.
“Just let me in.”
Voice sad.
“At least let me know you’re okay, Tim...”
Timmy or Tim?
No one else here.
Timmy Tim me?
~☆♡☆♡☆~
2 February – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
Kon had texted Tim non-stop for nearly four days. Tim would normally find it cute. Flattering. Blush like a little girl. Pathetic. Now? It was just pissing him off. He felt awful. His entire abdomen was hot with pain. Moving made him nauseous. Just looking at his phone was exhausting.
Kon: alive?
Tim: yeh
Kon: convincing
Kon: you looked like actual roadkill in Newark, pretty boy
Tim: sleeping
Kon: you’re literally texting me
Kon: eaten anything?
Tim: fine
Kon: not what i asked, genius
Tim: leslie later
Kon: you better actually mean that
Kon: don’t make me come over
Tim: stop
Kon: wow. rejected. devastated.
Kon: cruel little bird
Kon: seriously sweetheart what happened to you
Kon: come on
Kon: Tim?
Kon: sorry for pushing
Kon: still alive?
Kon: Tim
Kon: quit being a jerk
Kon: it’s been hours
Kon: just tell me you’re ok
Kon: Tim
Kon: pick up the phone
Kon: i’m coming over
Blink.
Blink blink.
Sleepy.
Hot.
Ow.
Door voice.
“Tim? C’mon, dude. I know you’re in there.”
Tim me.
Who you?
“You have officially exceeded your allotted brooding time.”
Huh?
“Open the door or I’ll tell your daddy on you. Soon as Clark gets his window to pick him up.”
Daddy?
“Yeah, that’s right. Nobody wants Bruce involved.”
Daddy Bruce?
“Tim?”
Bruce Tim’s Daddy.
Daddies big strong safe.
Thump thump knock.
“Come on, Tim. Let me in.”
Hide.
Behind sofa.
Door no see there.
Wait.
Quiet.
Daddy?
~☆♡☆♡☆~
5 February – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
Too hot.
Thirsty.
Drink hurt.
Eat hurt.
Too tired.
No move.
Door loud.
Shh.
Please.
“Tim, open the door. Now.”
Want sleep.
Stop.
“Kon said you’re home, Tim. Said you ignored him.”
Who?
Too hot.
Make stop.
New voice.
“Enough, Grayson. If you are truly concerned, step aside.”
“Dami, you can’t just –“
Click.
Door open.
People in.
People in?
No.
Only Timmy in.
That’s rule.
People walk fast.
“Timmy? Oh my god!”
Tall one come sofa.
Crouch near.
Look tummy.
Look cut.
Cold hands.
Too hot.
Gentle touch.
“Dami, he’s burning up. Tim? Can you hear me, buddy?”
Lots talk.
Too much.
Hand on cut.
OW.
Small one appears.
Pushes tall one.
“Grayson, do not touch that. Call Dr Thompkins. Drake? When did the operation take place?”
The what?
Small one angry.
Small one Dami?
Little hands.
Blue gloves.
Lots touch.
“The midline incision is surgical. The other wound is penetrating trauma, likely a stab wound, possibly closed in the field. Drake, stop touching. He's febrile. Tachycardic. Dehydrated. Infection is probable. Drake, have you had any vomiting or loss of consciousness? Grayson, sterile supplies. Not those, the sealed pack. Drake, look at me. When did you last eat? Drink?”
Too many words.
Shh.
Tall one talking.
Dami said Grayson?
Grayson touch Timmy hair.
Soft.
“Dami, give him a second.”
“He may not have a second.”
“Dami. Is the evidence telling you that?”
Quiet.
“Drake is stable. He has likely been in this condition since Kent’s attempted visit.”
“Okay, so we can give Timmy a second to adjust.”
Soft one nice.
“Sweetheart. Tim. Is it okay if Dami starts you on some meds?”
Huh.
Don’t know.
Soft Grayson smiles.
Timmy smiles.
“Yeah? Okay, Dami. Go for it.”
More touch.
Tired.
Ow.
Tube in arm.
What?
Mean.
Bossy small Dami one.
Playing with tube.
Put lots in.
Where tube?
Try look arm.
Grayson touch cheek.
“Shh, Tim. It’s okay. Don’t look. Dami’s just giving you some painkillers so it doesn’t hurt when he looks at your stomach.”
Pain kill?
No hurt?
What?
Don’t understand.
Arm cold.
Tummy less burny.
Huh.
Tiny move.
No hurt?
What?
Dami magic.
“I am concerned regarding the lack of response, Grayson.”
“He might just be tired, pal. Leslie’s nearly here.”
Who?
Lots names.
Mine Timmy.
Soft one say Timmy lots.
Lady come.
New lady.
Gentle voice nice.
Says then touch.
No surprise touch.
Nice.
Thing in ear.
Beep beep.
Thing on finger.
Beep beep beep.
Cold on chest.
Listens.
Cold on tummy.
Stick rubs tummy.
“Tim.”
Lady sound mad?
“Leslie, what’s wrong?”
Stick moves.
“Tim, where is your spleen?”
What’s spleen?
Very quiet.
Grown ups talk.
“Grayson, you can’t be suggesting –“
“All I’m asking is if hospital is necessary or if we can manage outpatient. You know how Tim gets –“
“Grayson, look at him. Dr Thompkins, you cannot possibly –“
“He needs antibiotics, fluids and rest, Damian. Dick’s right. If a hospital is going to upset him, it might not be worth it yet. We can try home care and see how it works. If his temperature goes any higher, or he becomes less responsive, we’re done. He goes to the ER. I want to see him at clinic tomorrow, though. I need clearer imaging.”
“Leslie, if his spleen is really gone... what does that even mean?”
“Daily prophylactic antibiotics. He’ll need all his vaccinations updated. Any fever or infection becomes a high-risk situation. But, I need proper scans. An ultrasound isn’t enough.”
Spleen gone?
What’s spleen?
Timmy sick?
Medicine daily?
Dami touching tummy.
Wipe wipe wipe.
Burny smell.
New bandage.
Better.
Lady look Timmy.
“Tomorrow, Tim. My clinic. Ten in the morning.”
Nice lady.
What tomorrow mean?
Where clinic?
Like lady.
Lady go.
Dami keep touching.
Blink.
Damian.
Blink.
Dick holding his hand.
Blink.
What the fuck?
“Drake, once you regain responsivity I will require a full explanation of the surgery and absence of your spleen. These sutures are atrocious. Amateur.”
What the actual fuck do you mean my spleen is absent?
Oh, that’s going to be a pain in the ass.
Immunocompromised.
Woo.
Wait. When you regain responsivity. Another fucking blackout. Shit. If they catch on to those, Dick will freak. Dami will get out a clipboard.
Tim ran his tongue over his teeth. Tried to remember how to talk.
“Splenectomy.”
Demon Brat’s head whipped up to look at him. Kid looked relieved. Hah. You like me.
“That is not an appropriate incision for a splenectomy.”
“There were complications.”
Damian looked incandescent.
He brought Tim a mug of tea anyway.
~☆♡☆♡☆~
7 February – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
Home loud.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Shiny screen.
Picture.
Picture angry boy.
Angry boy help tummy.
Dami.
Touch picture.
Picture gone?
New noise.
“Drake? You answered. Miraculous.”
Dami in home?
Can’t see.
Dami in screen?
“Dr Thompkins informed me that you failed to attend your appointment yesterday. That is exceedingly stupid, even by your standards.”
“…Dami.”
Quiet.
Funny noise.
“What did you call me?”
Dami no hear?
“Dami.”
“My name is Damian.”
No.
Soft nice Dick said Dami.
“Dami.”
“No. Damian.”
“Dami.”
“Damian Wayne. It is not difficult. Damian. Wayne.”
“Dami… wayn.”
Dami angry noise.
“I am Damian Wayne, blood son of Bruce Wayne, grandson of—”
Lots talk.
Angry?
Loud.
“Regardless, you were supposed to come to your appointment -”
“Come where?”
“The clinic, Drake.”
“Where?”
“…You cannot possibly be serious.”
“Dami.”
“You are doing this deliberately.”
“…okay.”
“Do not ‘okay’ me.”
“…okay.”
“DRAKE.”
Screen beep.
Dami gone.
Home quiet.
Lonely.
Blink.
Fuzzy.
Blink.
Tim sunk back into his body. On the sofa. Fingers distant. Another blackout? They were beginning to piss him off. Tim’s phone was buzzing aggressively.
Damian: Your behaviour on the phone earlier was profoundly immature even by your standards.
Damian: You know my name.
Damian: You know the impact of a splenectomy.
Damian: Attend your medical appointments, Drake.
What fucking appointment?
Damian was a confusing little bastard.
~☆♡☆♡☆~
10 February – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
Loud knock.
Door thump thump thump.
“Yo, Replacement! I’m coming in.”
Door open.
Timmy didn’t open.
How?
Tall, tall man.
White stripe hair.
Smell like car.
Leather jacket.
Hand to ear.
“Yeah, I’m in, Dick. Quit fussing. Jesus.”
Far away voice.
Where voice?
“Thanks Jay. I’m just worried about him.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go stress-clean, Cinderella.”
Big man look.
Watch Timmy.
Dick called man Jay?
Jay.
“Dick told me he came to see you with Demon Brat.”
Who?
“…Dick?”
Jay point wall.
Picture.
Me. Dami. Jay. Big safe man. Soft man.
Jay tap soft man picture.
“Yeah, yeah, Dickface. Can’t believe Demon got him to break in. God, I hate this photo of him. Honestly, none of you people have boundaries.”
Soft man Dick.
Okay.
Jay put bag on table.
Open bag.
GOOD smell.
Jay sit sofa.
Eat.
Timmy eat?
Timmy sit too.
Jay give food.
“Fucking hell. Eat, kid. It’s not poisoned.”
Nice Jay.
Yummy.
Tummy happy.
Jay talk lots.
Jay laugh good.
~☆♡☆♡☆~
13 February – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
Shiny screen.
Timmy love shiny screen.
Makes noise.
Lights up.
Pictures.
Picture Jay.
Picture Dick.
Picture Dami.
Picture big man.
People in shiny screen.
Nice people.
Love.
Sometimes touch shiny.
Then people talk.
Magic.
Touch with thumb.
Touch blue square.
Very exciting.
Lots wiggly lines.
Lots pictures.
Pictures nice people.
Jason: Replacement, I need you to fucking explain why my dead Dad isn’t dead anymore.
Jason: Srsly I ran into him on patrol and nearly ran into a wall.
Jason: Wtf
Dick: Tim, jokes aside, we need to know what happened.
Dick: I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Can you explain it again please?
Dick: Is it to do with why you’re hurt?
Jason: For real kid, who fucking gutted you
Damian: Drake, answer the question regarding the abdominal incision.
Bruce: Tim. Where were you between January 6 and January 28?
Jason: Spill the beans, little red. Why’d Superman have B?
Wiggly lines.
Don’t understand.
Picture people.
Nice people.
Love.
Bright button bottom screen.
👍
👍
👍
Jason: fuck off
Jason: are you ok?
Dick: Tim 😭 please stop reacting and TALK TO US
Bruce: What happened in January?
More picture!
👍
👍
👍
Jason: I swear to god if you thumbs-up me one more time
👍
Love Jay.
Damian: Drake, this is not an adequate response to a medical inquiry.
👍
👍
👍
Shiny screen people.
Press button.
👍
More pictures.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
👍👍👍👍
Lots wiggles.
Lots pictures.
Lots exciting.
All one together.
Dick Dami Jay all together.
And big man.
Dick Dami Jay know big man?
Big man who?
Look nice.
👍👍👍👍
Sun went down.
Tim blinked. Woke up from his blackout. He really needed to go see Leslie for tests. He’d go next week, maybe. Tim found his phone, abandoned on the floor. 20 missed messages. 10% charge. The family chat was going wild. Tim’s phone had sent dozens of thumb-up reactions. I don't remember sending those. Is it a glitch? Did I pass out on top of my phone? If they think I'm blacking out, they’ll freak.
Jason: I hate you
Dick: What was with the thumbs up thing?
Damian: Your behaviour was infantile.
Bruce: We still need to talk, Tim.
Tim: 👍
Tim: fuck off
~☆♡☆♡☆~
27 February – Tim’s Apartment, Gotham
Hungry.
Food home.
Food bad.
Apple ow.
Peanuts ow.
Bread ow.
No want.
Still hungry.
Need new.
Buy food?
Food outside?
Open door.
Scary.
Get dino.
Dino brave.
Go.
Metal door.
Press button.
Push push push.
Door open!
Wheeeeee!
Door again.
More door.
Outside.
Big sky.
Lots choices.
Feet move.
Hi feet!
Hi toes!
Dino hi toes.
Cold toes.
Wiggle wiggle.
Walk more.
Pretty sign.
In.
“Hey, Tim. Want the usual?”
TIM ME!
Hi!
Nod nod nod.
I Tim.
It me.
Show dino.
Love dino.
“Fucking hell, Tim. Keep your baby shit at home. Coffee?”
Angry?
Bad Dino?
Dino home?
Dino no shop?
Get drink.
Zip.
Ew.
Yucky.
“...no.”
“Not a fan of the coffee? Only other thing I can do for you is milk.”
“...kay.”
“...Sure thing, Tim.”
New drink.
Better.
Nice on throat.
Touch neck.
“Ah, right, bad throat. How’s your recovery going, anyway? Dick said you’ve been sick. Is that why you’re loopy? Grayson dose you with nyquil?”
Huh.
Lots words.
Nod.
Nod good.
People like nod.
“Here, we got some frozen broth in. Might be good sick food. Have one on me, just go straight home and shove it in the freezer, they’re melting super fast.”
Tub.
Straight home, freezer.
Kay.
Found home.
Feets remembered.
Head didn’t.
“Good afternoon, Bruce. Are you here to check on Tim? He’s been quiet this month, poor boy.”
“Mm.”
Bruce?
Daddy Bruce.
Man outside.
Screen picture man.
Man knows Dick Dami Jay.
Safe nice picture man Daddy?
Very exciting.
Bouncy feet.
Ee!
“Tim, how are you?”
Big smile.
Oh.
Shop.
Straight home.
Freezer.
Daddy stayed at door.
Looked Timmy feet.
Wiggly toes.
Daddy no come?
Okay.
Daddy later.
~☆♡☆♡☆~
18 November – Wayne Manor, Gotham
Drake was lying on the floor in Damian’s bedroom. Stomach pressed into the rug. Regressed. Kicking his feet in the air. Swamped by one of Todd’s sweatshirts. Bandaged arm peeking out from one sleeve. Content. Good. It had been a long shift. Damian had been supervising Timmy for three hours. Father was downstairs. Todd and Grayson were on patrol. Timmy was easy. Distractible. Positive affect. Predictable. Damian would be on duty for at least three more hours. He could finally work on the chronology. Opened his laptop. Began collating evidence. Movement. A stuffed dinosaur obscured his screen.
“DINO QUESTIONS.”
“Your dinosaur has questions for me?”
“YEAH.”
Drake was already climbing on the bed. Shoving the laptop aside.
“NAME.”
“You know my name.”
The stuffed toy collided with Damian’s nose. He is highly interactive today. Progress.
“NAME!”
“Damian.”
“Dami!”
“Damian.”
“DAMI!”
“...Fine. You have always called me that. Why?”
“Dick say.”
“Dick told you my name is Dami?”
“Yeah!”
“When?”
Drake’s eyebrows furrowed. Intense concentration.
“Long time.”
“A long time ago? What was happening?”
“Home. Dick Dami. Ow. Leslie. Cold tummy.”
...The ultrasound? Drake had been quiet. Acutely unwell.
Oh.
Not sick.
Timmy.
“That was you?”
“Me.”
Drake had not remembered that visit.
Had not remembered the scheduled follow-up.
Of course it was Timmy.
“You knew your name was Tim by the time Dr Thompkins examined you.”
“Tim.”
“Why?”
“Door say Tim.”
What? Why would the door -? Oh. We knocked. Kent knocked. He heard his name.
“Did you know your name before door said Tim?”
Silence. A shrug. Losing interest.
“What else did door teach you?”
Engaged. Eyes bright.
“DADDY BRUCE.”
Hm. That would require some interpretation.
Drake had learned a lot from the closed apartment door.
Interesting.
Timmy had not come into existence with autobiographical memory.
He had developed it.
Deduced relationships.
Learned names.
“You worked us all out some time ago, did you not?”
Drake stared. Did not appear to understand. Smiled. Smashed the dinosaur toy into Damian’s face.
“RAWR.”
Acceptable. The chronology could wait. Damian set his computer aside. Pushed up his sleeves.
“Dino will regret that decision.”