The more fic I read, the more annoyed I’m getting with this “Tim’s parents never loved him uwu” crap. Are we supposed to pretend we never read any of the Pre-52 Robin comics or what? Is his canonical emotional neglect and being subjected to Jack’s and Bruce’s different but similar brands of self-absorbed hot-and-cold parenting not woobie enough? Is having systematically lost nearly everyone Tim cared about in the span of one year that had him canonically suicidally depressed not enough trauma?
Y'all know that Tim’s whole tragedy is that he was the most normal, well-adjusted Batkid ever until life robbed him of every bit of stability and normalcy and he ended up exactly the person he swore not to become, right? That it wasn’t “going evil” he was afraid of, but becoming like Bruce, unable to function without being Batman, mired in his own darkness and isolation? That even after becoming a more morally grey and manipulative asshole, he still prioritizes his friends and family even more than Dick does?
Why do people even like Tim Drake when their version has barely any resemblance to his canon incarnation?
[IMAGE ID: digital art of the batfamily in front of a white background. Dick, Tim, Jason, Bruce, Damian, and Steph are present, with Duke front and center. They are all absolutely covered in paint and colored glitter, the colors all matching their superhero identities, and Duke looks down at himself with a grimace on his paint-streaked face. END ID.]
I read this lovely fic by @hyperactive-lectiophile called clockwork birds and gilded cages and GOD I love it so much.
Summary: The Drakes are a prominent family in The Court of Owls, and their son is on track to become a very high ranking member. But unbeknownst to them and everyone else, Tim has bonded with The Court’s most deadly weapon, Talon. The two must navigate the dangers of The Court to keep each other safe, and take over Gotham of course.
I’ve been busy with commissions and haven’t had a chance to draw Tim in celebration of the news! Heres some of my old sketches and paintings featuring our boy. Thank you for giving me another character I can talk about in my dissertation!
Wanting things he couldn’t get was a reoccurring theme of Tim Drake’s life. One might argue that it was a part of everyone’s life, but Tim believed that it repeated itself often enough in his life to be elevated to that of motif or possibly even TV Trope entry.
When he was a boy, Tim had wanted siblings, a brother or sister be friends with. He had wanted a pet to fill the emptiness of the house. He had wanted parents who acknowledged his existence. He had wanted someone around to just give him a hug every now and then.
Then he had grown and had wanted nothing more than to be a part of the mysterious family next door. To swing across rooftops with them. To make a difference with them. To help relieve some of the reckless, self-destructive pain he saw. And those wants had been granted for a time, only to now be ripped away again, and Tim found himself wanting fiercely to stay stay stay stay stay let me stay. That seemed about as likely as Jack and Janet Drake rising from their graves and scooping him up into a warm group hug. So, ever the pragmatist, Tim had wrapped that wish up and tucked it deep with all of his other deferred hopes and dreams.
But that didn’t mean that he stopped wishing entirely. Even when his big dreams faltered and collapsed, Tim kept himself buoyed with little desires, like narrow sandbars that lifted him just enough above the current to save him from being dragged under. He never stopped hoping. Never stoped dreaming. Never stopped wanting even though his life was nothing more than an unbroken string of denials and setbacks.
Over the past week and a half, Tim had kept himself afloat by daydreaming about pushing Charles Drake out a window. Or maybe stamping “I support industrialized logging” onto his forehead and dropping him off on Pamela Isley’s doorstep. Tim did his best not to be picky.
He had done his best to avoid his uncle over the past week and a half, a difficult task since Charles was ostensibly in town for him. Not that Charles was at all interested in being a supportive, caring uncle. He kept in nearly constant contact with Tim, but there were no words of condolence, no apologies for being absent for literally Tim’s entire life, no gestures of comfort. No, Charles Drake didn’t seem capable of that sort of emotional labor. What he was very capable at was giving orders.
Timothy, you’ll be sitting with me at the service. Timothy, we’ll see to getting your father a proper headstone. Timothy, you will return to my hotel after the burial; no need to impose on Mr. Wayne any longer. Timothy, send my secretary your vital statistics for the custody arrangement. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy—
It was enough to make Tim consider changing his own name. Not that that would completely help. Charles had called him Tom the first time they had met inside the church, and Tim could only thank the stars that none of the team had been in earshot. He was used to being insignificant, but to be so insignificant that your closest living relative didn’t even know your own name? Pathetic.
Well, Charles was more than making up for the name swap now. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy…
A few years ago, Tim might have immediately folded under the barrage of orders. But after a few years withstanding the gauntlet of Bruce, Dick, and Damian, he at least managed to sink at a slow enough speed that it looked like his own choice. Rather than abandoning Wayne Manor entirely, for example, Tim moved back into his own house to devote his full attention to cataloguing its contents for the estate sale. He had resisted the little commands Charles gave as best he could when he thought they were wrong or unhelpful. He had avoided all talk of custody and had “forgotten” to contact Charles’s secretary.
But he was so tired, and every time Tim resisted Charles’s domineering ways, he had a little less to give. Now, after eleven days of text and phone calls, Charles had bestirred himself to come to the Drake family home. Tim still wasn’t sure why. Between his inability to concentrate and Charles’s propensity to drone on, he had only caught every third word.
Tim leaned against the edge of the dining table and fiddled with a teaspoon, watching mesmerized as the sunlight flashed off the silver. For kicks, he made it flash out SOS, which tempted a tiny smile to his lips, but the expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared. The part of his brain that was monitoring his uncle relayed that Charles was telling some unnecessary anecdote about a horse race and a dog-faced woman. Or a dog race and a horse-faced woman? Whatever.
Tim carefully placed the teaspoon in the box next to him and rubbed at his eyes. Moving back to the mansion had been a mistake. Wayne Manor was no party central, but its veins still thrummed with living, breathing people. The Drake estate was nothing more than a shrouded corpse, Tim a virus clinging to a life source that had gone dark. He spent his days packing and cataloguing and trying not to run face first into the memories that crowded the halls. He spent his nights clinging unabashedly to the stuffed bear he had brought from Cass’s pile and trying not to suffocate under the layer of ghosts and dust entombing his bed.
“I still don’t understand why you insist on doing this unnecessary work yourself.”
Tim choked back a sigh. What was unnecessary about saying goodbye to the last pieces of his entire life? The house needed to be sold. He and Charles both agreed on that. What did the man care if Tim was the one to prepare it?
“This is my house,” Tim explained for what felt like the tenth time. “These are my parents’ things. I want to do it.”
Mine. MY house. MY parents. I have so few things left to me, so let me do with them what I want.
Tim’s brow creased as Charles picked up the teapot he had been polishing, scraping its foot against the lacquered tabletop in the process. For a moment, he pictured… No. He was too tired to even summon up a satisfying fantasy scenario. All he could enjoy was a momentary homicidal fizzle, and then he was left with the cold hunk of ice in his chest.
“As long as this mess is wrapped up quickly,” Charles drawled as he checked his teeth in the reflection of the teapot.
Another fizzle of rage, and Tim’s jaw clenched. Maybe this was the moment when he would finally put his foot down, tell Charles to clear out and go home, that rats weren’t welcome under this roof.
“We have tickets on the 10 AM flight back to the West Coast on Sunday. Anything you haven’t finished by then can be taken care of by someone else. I have a board meeting Monday morning that I will not miss.”
We?
Had Charles managed to wrangle custody from a judge, then? Even as Tim wondered, he knew what a foolish question that was. Charles Drake didn’t need Tim’s permission or cooperation to take over. He was a close relative, didn’t have an egregious criminal record, and he had the means to take in a stray. What judge would say no?
Tim’s hand gripped the edge of the table as his knees quivered. Leave Gotham? Leave the Waynes? Even though he had told Damian that was the most likely outcome, he had thought… he had hoped…
“I can’t leave.” Even to his own ears, Tim’s voice sounded strained and so very young. “My… my life is here. I live here. In Gotham.”
My home is here. My family is here. EVERYTHING is HERE.
“Don’t be silly,” came Charles’s immediate reply. “There’s nothing for you here. Your parents are dead. Your belongings are being sold. I’ve arranged a buyer for the house, and your father’s assets will be liquidated and held in trust for you until you come of age, with me as your legal trustee and guardian. What could you possibly have to keep you in this dismal little city?”
Batman! Batman needs me! HE was the one who had saved Bruce from himself after Jason had died. HE was the one who had pulled Bruce from the time vortex. Tim had spent the last few years doing everything he could to be indispensable to Bruce, and if he had to have faith in anything, he would have faith in that.
In his anger and panic, Tim only barely managed to catch himself from saying just that to Charles. Instead, he choked back Batman’s name and instead countered, “What about Bruce and the Waynes?”
Tim knew Charles hated Bruce the way a tall man hates a taller man. He wasn’t used to being cast in someone else’s shadow. But he also knew Charles knew to fear Bruce in Bruce’s own city. So Tim expected some consideration at best, annoyance at worst.
Tim hadn’t expected Charles to laugh right in his face.
“Don’t be silly.” Charles waved the teapot dismissively, then set it down on the table. Tim immediately snatched it back up and placed it in the box where it belonged. “Your internship can be transferred to my company. I’m sure we can find a place for you at Drake Holdings.”
Tim tried to explain that he couldn’t just leave. He owed them more than that. Surely Charles would understand the concept of that debt? They were his family. Family wasn’t supposed to just leave.
“They’ll be happy to be rid of you, I’m sure.”
Tim’s breath stuttered as his uncle spoke into the dust-flecked air the words that had wallpapered his nightmares for as long as he could remember. It almost would have been easier to take if Charles had spoken angrily, but he didn’t even look at Tim. His gaze was off somewhere over Tim’s shoulder, as if Tim wasn’t worth the effort of eye contact. As if they were two awkward acquaintances at a dinner party neither had wanted to attend.
“Bruce Wayne is a powerful and busy man, and as one myself, you can take my word that he will not mind in the slightest. Do you honestly think he’ll be sorry to no longer have you underfoot? You were a nuisance that he took in—well, come to think of it, I don’t know why. Charity, perhaps. Or a rich man’s whim. Whatever the case, he will be pleased to have his home free of interlopers.”
Once, on patrol, Tim had gotten separated from the other birds in a fight. It had gone pretty well, considering how badly he’d been outnumbered, until his foot had hit some loose asphalt chunks and he’d gone sprawling. The breath had been knocked out of him, and before he could struggle back to his feet, he’d been encircled by three thugs who then proceeded to kick the living snot out of him. It had been terrifying and painful. He’d been bedridden for days. Had had nightmares for weeks.
This was a hundred times worse, each of Charles’s words more painful than any steel-toed boot to the ribs. At least then he had known he just had to hold out for Batman to rescue him. Now, he was alone.
Bruce Wayne won’t mind.
Would he? Would Bruce mind? Or would Tim’s disappearance cause not so much as a ripple on the surface of Wayne Manor?
Underfoot… a nuisance… a charity case… a rich man’s whim…
Tim’s shoulders curled in under the verbal blows, and he pressed his palm against his rib cage. He pictured the team sprawled on the couch in the den for movie night, happily taking up the extra space he’d left behind. He pictured Bruce’s sigh of relief at the peace his absence left. No more fights with Damian. No more tension with Dick. No more surprise attacks from Jason. He pictured his room at Wayne Manor empty. Or worse, filled by another boy. Someone smarter, funnier, stronger, better.
Tim’s chest heaved with panic. He was down and he was trapped and no one was coming for him and no one would miss him and Charles was calling him an interloper and hearing someone else use Damian’s pet slur was like taking an uppercut when he already couldn’t breathe and—
“I had no idea we were so close that you could presume to know my wishes, Charlie.” Both Charles and Tim jumped as Bruce’s well-cultured voice spoke from the previously empty space near the kitchen.
Charles turned to answer, his embarrassment already smoothed over by a phony smile, and Tim tried to use the moment to regain his composure. How much had Bruce heard? Enough, by the low growl under his words, but what did he object to? What Charles had said or that he had been crass enough to say it? Tim swallowed hard against the rising sick in the back of his throat, only to nearly startle again when Bruce stepped around Charles and placed a tray on the table next to Tim.
“Alfred sent me with lunch and instructions to extract a promise that you’ll be over at five for dinner. He wants your opinion on the sauce for the pasta puttanesca.” The words were gentle, not pitying, but kind, but Tim couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes.
Tim nodded, gaze on his feet, then froze as a large hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. He could count on one hand the number of times Bruce had touched him in a non-emergency situation, and half of those had happened since Jack’s initial illness. Bruce Wayne did not do physical affection. Sitting with Tim on his dead father’s bed or holding his hand as he cried himself to sleep was one thing. But Tim wasn’t crying. Charles was here watching. And Bruce was two days shy of being free of Tim for good.
Bruce kept his hand on Tim’s shoulder even as he pivoted to talk to Charles. Tim was deaf to their argument, his focus on the warmth spreading through his shoulder by that inexplicable hand. Or, not entirely deaf. He heard what they were saying—what Bruce was saying—but the words didn’t make sense.
Brightened my home… a comfort… happy to keep… never been in my way… leave him…
Was he dreaming? Or dead? Had he died instead of Jack? Because that was the only explanation for those words coming out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth about anyone, but especially about Tim. But Tim could still feel Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from Charles and behind Bruce’s broad back, sheltering him from view. Then Bruce let go to step toward Charles, and the sudden absence snapped Tim back into focus.
“What’s Tim’s favorite brand of coffee?”
What? Tim thought even as Charles echoed the question aloud.
“Coffee,” Bruce snapped. “Favorite brand. Come on, that’s an easy one. Something any family of Tim’s would know. No? What about his favorite movie?”
“Bruce?” Tim took a small step forward, ready to reel Bruce back in. But Bruce was just getting started, and for every question he asked, he took another step forward, driving Charles back and away from Tim.
“What does he want to do with his life? Where does he want to go to college? What’s his favorite flavor Skittle? Come on!”
Bruce’s shoulders were tight with rage, making Tim’s eyes go wide. What was this? Bruce didn’t lose control. It wasn’t part of his persona. Heck, he hadn’t seen Batman lose control since Jason, and that was only because Bruce had thought he’d lost his son.
“Bruce?” Tim tried again, louder this time, only to jerk backward as Bruce drove one powerful forearm against Charles’s chest and pinned the other man to the wall.
“What’s his middle name?” Bruce demanded, nearly shouting now. “WHAT’S YOUR NEPHEW’S MIDDLE NAME, CHARLES?”
Tim couldn’t let him hurt Charles. Not because he cared about Charles, but because he cared about Bruce, and attacking another person was not something Bruce Wayne did out of the cowl.
“Bruce!” Tim cried, springing forward. “Bruce, stop! Let him go! Bruce! BRUCE!”
He managed to get ahold of Bruce’s other arm and used his full body weight to yank the older man backward. Geez, Bruce was shaking. Tim pulled him back to the table, as far away as he could from Charles, letting go only when Bruce’s broad shoulders deflated and slumped.
“I’m sorry, Tim,” Bruce said, his voice no louder than a whisper now. “I told myself that this had to be your decision and no one else’s. I don’t want to make it for you.”
Tim held perfectly still as Bruce reached out and cradled the side of his face with his hand. One large, calloused thumb rubbed against Tim’s cheekbone gently, as if wiping away tears that weren’t there. Not now, anyways.
Bruce, don’t. Don’t be nice to me then send me away. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I—
“I’d fight for you.”
Tim’s eyes flew up to meet Bruce’s. Bruce’s blue gaze was steady and clear and… Soft. Almost sad, the way he looked sometimes when Dick would fall asleep in the living room after a long night of patrol. If he thought no one was looking, Bruce would stand at the end of the couch and gaze down at his eldest like he thought Dick would disappear at any moment. Or had disappeared, only to come back as someone new. Like he was proud and resigned all at the same time. But that made sense. That was Dick, a boy Bruce loved more than his own life, a boy he had watch grow up from a gap-toothed circus orphan to a full-grown man. Tim… wasn’t. He was just Tim. Why would Bruce look at him that way?
“If you wanted to stay, I’d fight for you, and I promise you that I’d win. But this is your life and your choice. And he is your uncle.”
He’s your family, Tim’s brain supplied. That’s what Bruce meant. But also, I could be your family, too.
Tim could have basked in that moment for a lifetime, but Charles had found his tongue, so Tim cut him off before he could draw Bruce’s attention away again.
“He’s a douchebag.” Tim’s voice wobbled, but he swallowed and kept going. Look at me, Bruce. Pay attention to me.
“My dad didn’t even like him. Always said he was an opportunistic parasite with bad taste in opera and worse taste in wives. They hadn’t even talked in years.”
Tim bit out each word with spiteful glee, deepening his voice just enough to echo Jack’s disdain, and then delighting in the whisper of a smile on Bruce’s lips.
Bruce’s hand was still on his face, so Tim reached up and placed his own hand atop Bruce’s. Don’t go. Don’t let me go.
He wasn’t too proud to beg. “Can I really stay, Bruce? I want to stay. I never wanted to go, but I thought I had to. Please let me stay.”
Please don’t let me be alone. I want to stay. I need to stay. You’re my family, please please please, Bruce, don’t leave me, too.
Tim choked back a sob as Bruce moved his hand, but instead of releasing him as Tim had feared, instead Bruce pulled Tim into a tight hug. “Of course you can. You will always have a home with me.”
Entire body shaking with silent tears, Tim threw his arms around Bruce and buried his face in Bruce’s chest. Bruce’s arms enveloped him, and Tim sobbed in earnest. His nose filled with Bruce’s subtle aftershave, the laundry detergent Alfred used to make everything feel soft and clean, the faint hint of diesel fuel and leather. This was right. This was home.
Tim had thought finding his place would feel different somehow. Like in the moment he took Bruce’s hand and they strode out of the Drake estate toward the Manor, there would be this great rending of reality, forever hewing his life into Before and After.
And he was right. Because no matter what happened now, he knew Bruce would never let him go. He had a family. A place to belong. A home. He was not alone.
——-
Thanks for reading! Please see the AO3 version’s end notes for the little Jason snippet I couldn’t make fit into the final fic.
