Chapter Text
In another universe, Tim figured, he might have been a little rich boy. Maybe alternate universe Tim grew up in a big house with distant but somewhat affectionate parents who didn’t commit white collar crimes so impressive that they had to fake their deaths and flee the country.
Maybe, in another life, in a universe far away, Tim’s parents brought him with them when they disappeared.
It was a nice thought. Unfortunately, this was not another universe. His reality did not involve riches and inheritance, galas and mansions, or even a sunny beach in the wonderful non-extradition country of Cuba. Instead it involved a drafty and somewhat crappy apartment, and a whole lot of hustling to make ends meet.
Listen, he could have stayed at the orphanage. It was one of Gotham’s better ones, run by nuns and shockingly non-corrupt. But Tim wasn’t really a Catholic kind of guy, nor was he a superfan of sharing a room with four boys, nor was he extremely eager to be adopted by some weird family. So he’d left.
Officially, Timothy Drake was presumed dead along with his parents. The nuns at the orphanage had asked his name, but little ten year old Tim had been smart and given them the name Alvin Draper instead. That way, when he’d taken his leave from the orphanage, the missing person report had not had his real name on it.
So, after all these years, Alvin Draper and Tim Drake were both presumed dead.
No kid lasted very long on their own in Gotham, after all.
Tim was a ghost. He was not one, but two dead kids. Now how many people could say that?
For a dead kid (or kids?) his life wasn’t that bad. He’d been on the streets for a bit, but he was a smart kid. He’d made it through Gotham’s seasons by sleeping in the library’s stuffy, abandoned, attic whenever he could break in, and spent the summers learning to pick-pocket tourists.
Why anyone would want to visit Gotham, Tim wasn’t sure. But they did tend to carry quite a bit of cash.
With no education, and even less of a legal identity, finding a job had been hard, despite the fact that this was Gotham. Surprisingly many businesses were legit, and the ones that weren’t tended to involve a bit too much gunfire for Tim’s liking. He’d worked at a diner that paid in cash for a while, but that hadn’t lasted for too long. Then there was the gas station, but they’d only been able to pay him under the table for so long before the Big Men In Suits had started becoming suspicious, and then he’d been let go.
He’d been fourteen and hopeless, jobless, hungry, and with virtually no skills other than picking pockets and shoplifting. He’d almost joined a gang. He’d been the perfect candidate, after all.
But then he’d seen that shiny, shiny camera hanging off the shoulder of a particularly distracted looking tourist. He’d remembered what he’d used to do before his parents left. And before he’d been able to think it through, he’d snatched the camera and holed up in the library’s attic again, waiting for nightfall.
Nightfall had come, and to Tim’s delight, Batman hadn’t changed his patrol routes too drastically.
He’d developed the pictures at the library, in the forgotten darkroom with chemicals he’d hoped hadn’t expired, and when morning came, he’d waltzed right into the Gotham Gazette’s offices, sold the two almost-decent pictures he’d managed to get of Batman and Robin to the paper, and had walked out with enough cash to buy himself food for a week.
Tim: One. Universe: Like, fifteen. But who was counting? A win was a win.
He’d spent most of his days waiting for it to become night. The pictures sold for a pretty penny, since getting a photo of the bats was not the easiest thing in the world. And when Tim was waiting for the night to come, he’d spent his time reading.
He did live in a library. Might as well.
He’d picked up anything that sounded mildly interesting, and had read quite a bit on photography while he was at it. Alongside the thick glossy camera guides, came computer science, coding, mosses and lichens in northern Europe, Latin language and Ancient Roman culture, French for Dummies. Just anything he’d been able to get his hands on, really.
And then there had been the book on the occult arts and practices. Which had then become the books on occult arts and practices. Tim had found it fascinating. The cards, the runes, the charms and spells, the mystique and allure, the different forms of divination, fortune telling, the different paths of witchcraft.
Was he a believer?
Eeeh. Not really. But Jesus Christ, it was interesting.
And it had also been, potentially, a way to make money. A semi-stable profession.
Lord knows he’d needed money. The library was nice, and all that, but it wasn’t a permanent solution. He’d known that. He needed an apartment. Rent in Gotham could in some places be on the lower side, since no one really wanted to live in Gotham, but it still cost more than Tim was dragging in from his photography.
But fortune telling was unpredictable. There were guides, of course. What to look for in the tea cups, what the lines in your palm meant, what card meant what. Tim had learned it all, but he’d known he needed to stand out to gain a clientele. He needed something that would make people come back. The craft was only a third of it, another third was charm.
Tim could be charming. That wasn’t too hard.
The last third was accuracy. There was the artful skill of nonspecific language. Careful phrasing that made the most general of assumptions sound cut and tailored to each individual customer. But Tim had wanted more.
He’d wanted true accuracy. He’d wanted to be right.
And… well. He did have his camera. He was a smart kid. And he did know how to go undetected well enough that the Big Bad Bat didn’t even notice him.
He’d cracked his knuckles, lifted a brand new notebook, and had gotten to work.
-
Two years later, there he was. An established fortune teller, spellcrafter, and all around mystic man.
He also had his own apartment.
And a locked room in said apartment, filled to the brim with pictures, notes, information, printed out online conversations, you name it, all regarding Gotham’s high society.
If there was dirt, Tim had it. If there were secrets, Tim knew them. If anyone as much as even breathed information about their life , Tim was privy to it.
Those books on hacking had paid off.
He used the regular fortune teller ruse on his normal, everyday customers. Fanning out his cards with a flashy quick hand, humming and gently dragging his thumb over the lines in their palms in that particular way that gave people shivers, wrapped them around his finger with what he deduced about them just by observing them. He told them shiny little fortunes, sold them sweet little treats infused with spells, made them little intricate looking talismans.
It worked well. People walked away happy and dazed, often clutching a spell kit or a lucky charm. Money was sort of steady.
But with Gotham’s elite, that was where the real cash laid.
He made it his personal mission to know absolutely everything about them, so that when they came into his little living room, all decorated with fabrics and incense and candles, he could be eerily accurate. Spookily correct in his fortunes. He predicted pregnancies, divorce, cheating. Told young women which boyfriend to watch out for, and old businessmen who not to make a deal with.
To them, he was the real deal.
He’d booked a few dances and parties over the last year. And though everyone who walked into the little tent he put up swore that they only did it for a laugh, they walked away wide eyed and stunned, finding themselves believing in something that they would never admit.
Yeah, Tim was pretty damn good at his job.
It was exhausting at times, keeping up with all the drama and secrecy of Gotham’s high society. Making sure he hacked his way into private texts undetected, and being at the right place at the right time to ensure he could get the latest scoop on who was doing who. But it paid his bills. He could even treat himself to little things. A pair of nice jeans, a concert, some of that delicious coffee from the local café, a new tarot deck, jewelry that didn’t fall apart after two uses.
It was nice. It was regular. It was the way his life worked.
So when Bruce Wayne (or at least the people who were organizing his Halloween party) reached out and asked to book him for the entire night, he accepted, thinking nothing of it.
Okay, that was a lie. He might have squealed a little. But only because he was invited to Batman’s house! Not that he’d see much of it, he’d probably be parked in his tent the whole evening. But still! Batman!
He refreshed all he knew about the Waynes, which was more than he should know.
There was Bruce, of course. Batman. He was currently really into green juice and was flirting with Selina Kyle, Catwoman, on the down low.
Dick Grayson, Nightwing. He’d recently been serial dating, according to the papers, but Tim knew it was only a rumor. The only real date he’d been on had been with a romance novel. He did seem a little lonely, and his texts to judge, he wouldn’t mind a real date too much, but he was scared.
Jason Todd. He’d been abroad for a while a couple of years back, studying literature in Switzerland, according to the Gotham Gazette. Tim knew that he’d really been dead, though (Tim tried not to think too hard about the logistics of that one). And that he was not spending his days by furthering his studies on his own, but rather had been making himself known on the streets as crime lord Red Hood. He was currently being double crossed by a member of his crew.
Damian Al Ghul Wayne. Robin. Youngest of the Wayne clan, volunteer at a cat shelter and trained assassin. Insecure, but hid it beneath layers of arrogance and perfectionism. He’d recently been injured on patrol, Tim had been there to see it.
And then there was Stephanie Brown, Spoiler. Not really a member of the family, but not really not a member of the family. Her father was Cluemaster, and her boyfriend sucked.
They’d all been at events that Tim had been booked for, but none of them had ever gotten their fortunes read before. Tim wasn’t sure if this particular party was going to be any different, the Waynes did tend to keep to themselves a bit. But on the off chance that today was the day that changed their minds, Tim had their (and everyone else's) information fresh in mind.
He ate an early dinner, packed his bags, put on jeans and a hoodie, and hailed a cab to Wayne Manor.