Chapter Text
01 a twist of fate
I made it up. Every day. Just like you. Like a writer…what do you think a business man is? A politician? They’re sorcerers—they make things up. Stories are all that we have to hold us together. Politics, science, money—they’re just stories.
—Richard Flanagan
The muffled sound of the salty waves lapping against the sides of their boat was a lullaby in it’s own way. Thankfully, Tim had only awoken in his cabin an hour beforehand and while the summer bliss had him content with his laptop on the king-sized bed, he wasn’t tempted to return to the arms of sleep after the shower he’d just had.
He could hear the faint sound of his mother’s startled laughter above board on the deck and Tim lowered the volume on his laptop, hoping to catch another one. The audio on Percy Jackson was low enough for subtitles that he didn’t need to sound anyway.
There was another laugh, this time it was his dad’s.
Curious, Tim closed his laptop shut and grabbed his phone, sliding off his bed. A crash of a reprimanding wave made the Leopard 50 dip sideways, off-balancing him if he didn’t catch himself with a hand on the cream wall. He knocked a painting sideways. He was about to right it when their boat righted itself, rising up and sloping on another wave.
His phone pinged in a series of alerts. Alerts he’d coded into the device—a Wayne Tech phone, unfortunately. The only easily accessible choice that enabled the use of satellite reception. He’d bought one in haste when his parents had invited him along with them to go sailing for the summer vacation. It would have been difficult to stay connected with his friends back in Gotham otherwise.
And of course Tim would go with them, he hadn’t seen his parents in so long.
Frowning, he turned the thing on and checked his alerts. He called the small piece of code ‘Systems Watch’ as a joke. But SyWa was handy at times like this; when his best friend’s name was plastered all over articles coming straight out of Gotham and even dumb sites like BuzzFeed of all things. Apparently Nathaniel’s dad, rockstar and legend Octavius Grey, was being blasted in the news for backhanding his girlfriend to the floor after a concert.
This was in the news for multiple reasons. Like, so many. But Tim cared for two; Nathaniel’s TikTok page was being spammed with hate comments since articles used pictures of the man’s kid in articles to slander him—(tasteless)—and that Nathaniel’s mother was Octavius Grey’s wife.
For some unknown reason the Broadway actress loved the man very very much. Nathaniel loved his mother in turn. Therefore, Tim concluded, his friend’s personal life had yet again turned into a mess. Something that was usually Tim and Birdie’s thing.
Sighing, Tim checked the time and did the mental math for the timezone. Not yet. He exited his cabin, crossed the cozy saloon and went up the sleek lacquered stairway up onto the deck. He blinked the sun and the brisk salted air out of his face as he headed over to the main deck on the white boat where his parents had set up breakfast on the hutch.
He dipped to give his mother a greeting kiss on the cheek, “Momsie.”
“Daddy.” He did the same to his father.
He took his seat in the booth opposite the two, his father shooting him a wink behind his polarised shades.
“I feared you’d sleep the entire day away,” Janet Drake said with a fond if small grin cresting her lips.
She looked unreal like this; skin lightly freckled, her blonde hair not in a pristine styling but rather whipping around her face where it’d fallen free from her ponytail, her eyes sparkling with life instead of the calculating gaze she was prone to. Tim cherished it. Being with his parents like this.
“That’s all the fun of summer break,” his dad said, the good sport that he was. “It’s only been one month. He can sleep the other one away too, if he wants.”
“Tempting,” Tim said, accepting the plate the man was pushing towards him. It was already loaded with crisp potatoes and an omelet that appeared to be fried in butter and herbs, topped with green onions. “But the internet’s on fire over Nathan’s dad’s newest scandal.”
Jack Drake snorted, taking a sip from a crystal glass filled with some type of spirit, not at all surprised. His mother frowned, a slight crinkle forming between he brows. “What did the man do now?”
“Beat his girlfriend, allegedly,” Tim replied, dryly.
Janet scoffed. “And how is he? Your Nathaniel?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet,” Tim reminded her, cutting into his omelet with the side of his fork.
“Thinking of returning early?” Jack asked him and the man had a way of giving his full attention when he wanted to, that made people want to lean in and keep it.
Tim was above things such as ‘preening’ for his parents, but he felt the warmth spread through his chest and he knew it wasn’t from the delicious omelet. “Should I?”
Janet sighed airily. “That boy would help you hide a body. You can’t afford to lose him—druggie father or not.”
Tim’s lips curled into a small smile. That wasn’t the issue. He took the glass out of his father’s hand to steal a sip or two. “It’s not that. I think he might be annoyed if I flew in just for him.”
“Find another reason then,” Jack said, like it was that easy.
And it was. Lying wasn’t hard. Tim did it all the time.
Tim hummed, turning it around in his mind. Maybe Birdie had some type of crisis he could insert himself into. It was easy to make Nathaniel go along with things if it was about helping Birdie. He’d psuedo-adopted the teen long before Birdie had imprinted on Tim himself and dragged Nathaniel into Tim’s rather monotonous life.
On cue, all their Wayne phones pinged off on the table. The Drake Family shared a look before picking up their devices.
It was an email. From Lucius Fox’s secretary.
An invite to the Wayne’s upcoming gala.
That in itself wasn’t weird. The Drakes were invited to all of Gotham’s socialite events, more and more in recent years as Drake Industries made surprising moves in unexpected yet ingenious places. It was the side effect of turning a billion-dollar company into something that was clearly aiming for an empire. And of course, there was the matter of his mother’s side of the family.
The Drakes were invited to the Wayne’s events often. Less often did they ever go. For reasons upon reasons. The main one including the existence of Tim. A loyalty thing, Tim figured. He liked to think he didn’t need the show of support.
What was strange was the gala being held in the summer. Summer galas were the Astoridge’s thing, and the Drake’s thing at the tail end of the season when things had started to cool down and die.
But Bruce Wayne throwing a gala in the summer out of nowhere? Not just that, but having the CEO’s personal secretary send the emails to the Drakes directly? Strange. Very strange. Worse that he’d invited Timothy Drake, too. For what?
“Are you going?” Tim asked, finally, pulling his gaze away from the phone and catching the look his parents had been subtly attempting to shoot each other while he had been lost in thought.
He narrowed his eyes. “What.”
“Nothing,” his father said decisively, for both him and his mother.
“Also we can’t possibly go,” Janet picked up right where the man left off. She gestured at the expanse of sea.
Jack nodded. “We’re lost at sea.”
“We’re not lost,” Tim pointed out patiently, scanning their faces carefully. “You anchored the boat. You know exactly where we are.”
Boat and not yacht because his parents were surprisingly down to earth sometimes. Also because Tim had crashed their yacht into another yachter’s vessel on the coast of Monaco last year after he’d come on board drunk from an F1 celebratory party.
His victim was a 17 year old girl who’d, upon being smacked by his yacht called Destiny, had dropped her hands from her steering wheel to gesture wildly at the name branded on her own vessel; Twist of Fate.
The two teens had burst out laughing at the irony, him drunk, her just because she it was funny and since she was already in a bikini—and her yacht was slowly sinking under the water, her coolers floating off into the sea—had backflipped off the side of her yacht and swam over onto his where she’d spent the rest of her Monaco trip while their people handled the damages.
He’d gotten her number. She does opera singing as a hobby in her lame-o boarding school. He had no regrets.
Destiny was long since fixed by now and his parents pretended to forget the yacht existed in a futile hope that Tim would forget about it too. No chance. He’d skip this year’s F1 races but Sarah had made him promise to absolutely meet her up in Monaco again next year—no crashes this time.
“Italy’s a few days off,” his father said. “We’ll stop off at Greece, grab something to eat at lunch and push through to Italy. Once you’re there, you can take a flight back to Gotham.”
“That is, if you’re so curious about the Wayne gala,” his mother had to add, because of course she had to slip that in.
He was. Because Tim wasn’t stupid. He had a suspicion this unexpected gala was about the kid that started living with the Waynes a few years ago out of nowhere. He hadn’t looked into it, it was no surprise—Wayne took in homeless kids all the time. Maybe now Bruce was finally announcing his existence to society? The brat would be like what? 13 now? 14?
The gala had to be about this new adopted son Bruce was happy about having and it was on the date of Tim’s soon-to-be 16th Birthday. Now that was what Tim called a twist of fate.
When his dad lifted the anchor and resumed his post at the aluminum wheel, Tim busied himself with climbing the sails, tying himself in as he loomed over the seas, overlooking the roiling turquoise waves.
Tim was already sad to leave the summer bliss behind.
In Greece, they had lunch and Tim explored a small part of the island, taking photographs when he could on his unfortunate Wayne Tech phone. He got the attention of one of the local girls and her friend who asked him if he was one of those sailing families. He’d played along, not wanting to get into the semantics that ‘no, they were only doing it during the summer break’ and they found the idea of sailing so intriguing that he invited them back to their boat (Not-US.S Enterprise).
They spent the day diving off the ramp of the Robertson&Caine boat into the crystal clear blues of Greece and learning about each other’s vastly different worlds. The girls told him about the best places to fish with his dad and where the prettiest fishes usually frequented for snorkeling. He told them he was from Lyons, France and that he was studying at an atelier. Then he asked them if they wanted to break out his jet ski.
All in all, it was a good day. One of the girls’ family even fed them dinner, which was a win.
***
With their boat docked in Italy’s port, Tim gave his mother a hug and a parting kiss before being pulled into a tight embrace by his father.
“You have everything?” the man asked, checking him over while Janet fussed with the locks of his hair to ensure the long strands perfectly framed his face, because she was particular like that. They were literally on vacation, mom.
“I’m not carrying anything,” Tim told him. “Well. Except for my phone.”
His real phone too. Anything else he needed he could buy with the card he had on it.
They said their goodbyes, his father asking him to do him a favour when he got to Gotham and his mother reminding him to behave. No promises on that one. Then he was off, walking into the city and taking a taxi to the Italian airport after having a stone oven pizza to end his summer trip.
He’d bought a ticket for the soonest flight and was loitering at one of the airport stores. He wanted to buy his friends something obnoxiously Italian. Instead he’d decided on phone charms that had a green, white and red soft pom-pom with a gold charm of the Leaning Tower of Pisa attached to it. Couldn’t get more stereotypical than that. Buying four of those, he set about dismantling his Wayne Tech phone and throwing it in the bin.
He couldn’t be spotted entering Gotham with his tech rival’s phone in hand. He shuddered at the headlines that he saw coming if that ever happened. Wayne Phones were a status symbol, ‘the cool kids’ phones, the elite businessman phones. Overpriced, impossible to repair, flagship software crammed in sleek portability and if Tim was being honest; aesthetically beautiful.
Drake Technologies phones were the working man’s phones. Like a Fender Telecaster, it could do everything you needed, for an affordable price because Wayne Enterprises had given them an easy target in the market. That was the first of the strategy Tim had gotten his father to implement when they were expanding D.I.. Filling the gaps W.E. left behind.
Everyone wanted a Wayne Phone, but the phone in most hands were the less glamorous Drake Technologies model. That meant Drake Industries got vastly bigger profit margins in quicker turn-overs. All the while D.I. got more access to consumer data than the competitor’s got from their smaller demographic; making product launches less like darts thrown in the dark, and more precise sequential drops.
That made it possible for Phase 2—D.I. would be dropping their flagship model (the one Tim was currently using) this year, with a guaranteed market built on consumer trust and the convenience of a familiar but reliable ecosystem. It wasn’t for everyone, but any user that wanted an upgrade? Well, D.I. would effectively turn their heads away from the W.E. phones and snatch another sale from the market. Win-win, honestly.
Tim boarded the flight and immediately fell asleep in the first class bed cabin, already regretting not taking their jet. It would have delayed his departure much longer though, getting the plane ready on such short notice.
He startled awake when his phone switched from playing KiiiKiii’s 404 (New Era) to Young Posse’s VISA in his ears (Birdie made all his playlists and he was a K-pop fiend). Glancing out the window he was greeted to the dreary Gotham skyline.
Play time was over. Home Sweet Home.
***
When Tim was 7 years old, he’d chalked up the bravery to ask his parents to meet his father. Not his daddy, that was Jack. Jack who took him with him golfing to meet his ‘bros’ and bragged about him at lounge clubs saying he couldn’t keep up with these hooligans now that he was a daddy now. No. He meant Bruce Wayne.
When he was 5 years old, the truth came out because Tim was too smart for his own good and put the slightly coded conversation his parents were murmuring around the dinning table together. It had been…not good.
What do you mean daddy wasn’t actually his dad? Daddy was all he knew! It took time to get him to stop sobbing and his momsie couldn’t handle it anymore, yelling at daddy for bringing this topic up with Tim present.
They didn’t know how to make Tim stop crying so momsie called in his Nanny and the red-haired woman had taken Tim away to his room, bundled him up in her arms and told him that it doesn’t change anything. He was still Jack Drake’s baby and his parents loved him very very much...and that she loved him too.
He’d fallen asleep in her arms eventually. But it had taken all year for him to stop bursting out into tears when he remembered he wasn’t Jack’s son, not in the way he really wanted to be.
When Tim was 7 years old...it took a lot of courage to bring this up again. But he asked his mother if he could meet his dad. His real-not-real dad.
Janet had shared a look with Jack and they shared one of those ‘million-word’ stares. Then Jack had nodded, “Sure. Timmy. Your mother will send a lawyer.’
***
When Tim was 7 years old, Bruce Wayne, unaware was living next door, acres away. One night, after having a difficult conversation with Dick...Bruce closed the boy’s bedroom door quietly and started down the corridor. He felt relieved in an aching sort of way. For the first time since Dick had come to live with him, since the start of Robin, their household finally felt stable. At peace.
Maybe he wasn’t so bad at this parenting thing and Dick would turn out okay. He was coming down the grand stairs when the doorbell’s chime echoed through the rain and cracking thunder outside. Furrowing down at the time on his watch, Bruce headed for the foyer. Alfred made it there first.
The older man opened the door and Bruce came up beside him, curious.
“Mr. Wayne?” a man clutching a soaked umbrella for dear life inquired even though he knew the answer. “I’m Attorney Michael Davidson from Davidson & Davidson. If you could spare but a moment of your time? It is a matter of great importance.”
Alfred raised a curious brow at Bruce and the man nodded. The Wayne Family butler ushered their guest in, taking his coat and offering to dry his umbrella with a promise of something warm to drink upon his return.
Bruce guided the man into his study with Alfred preoccupied, allowing him a much appreciated seat. The dark green room felt too isolated from the now muffled thunder outside, the stillness unsettling. A grandfather clock was ticking on beat somewhere in the house.
“What’s this about?” Bruce asked the shorter man, taking note of his nervous mannerisms.
“Well you see, Mr. Wayne,” Michael started, “I am the intermediary for a paternity claim.”
Bruce’s stomach sunk like a lead weight. “What.”
Michael leaned down to grab up his briefcase, undoing the flaps as he pulled out a folder. Eyeing Bruce in search of—something, Bruce couldn’t tell what—he placed a stapled file in front of him gingerly. Bruce snatched it up, heart racing as he read the words, scanned the charts.
He looked up at the lawyer, pinning him with his gaze. “Why’s the child’s info redacted everywhere?”
“The boy’s mother requested it, Mr. Wayne,” the man said carefully, picking up another file from the folder. “She offers the non-redacted version to your eyes, only if you’re interested in knowing the boy.”
Bruce stilled. He looked down at the file again, his mind stalling over the fact that he’d made a child and it was out there, somewhere. A boy. He had a son.
Then his mind flashed back to the young boy sleeping upstairs. Dick. Who’d only just started moving on healthily about his parents. Who was finally getting used to the Wayne Manor and calling it home. The child who needed stability right now so that Bruce could help him work past his anger issues and need for revenge even if it was through Robin.
If he brought this other child in, would it light a fire to the keg that was finally just calming down? And then there was the issue of Batman and Robin. Could he bring in another member of the family—his new son, and have him be an outsider in his own home? How much would they have to lie to him and give excuses for the bruises and the long hours? How far would the exclusion go?
“How old is he?” Bruce asked softly, something in his chest dying.
“I’m not allowed to say unless you request these papers, sir,” Michael replied just as quietly.
Bruce spun it in his mind again. The image of this boy, waking up from a nightmare to an almost empty house with only Alfred to comfort him because his family was out fighting crime.
“Who’s his mother?” Bruce tried, knowing Michael Davidson only worked with a certain sphere of clientele. It shamed Bruce to realise he couldn’t guess which woman it could be from the hypothetical list.
Michael shook his head. “It’s on the full papers, sir.”
Of course it was.
It was selfish...what Bruce was going to do. But he was just, so happy that things were going so well with Dick and he didn’t want the boy to feel replaced at such a critical time like this…He knew their relationship right now, would not survive it. This mystery child however, had a parent already. A wealthy one too.
So Bruce did the most selfish thing he’d ever done.
He took the easy way out. Just this once. For Dick. For the family he’d finally allowed himself to have. For Robin and Batman; and the things they could build together in Gotham.
“...I don’t want to know,” Bruce told him, feeling like a failure but like he’d made the best decision considering the circumstances.
Michael took it easily, nodding as he reclaimed the stapled sheets he’d given him and sealing it away with the untouched papers. “In that case, sorry for disturbing you, Mr. Wayne.”
The man’s face was neutral, saying nothing, thinking nothing, and still Bruce felt judged. Bruce opened his mouth to, what? Say what?
When Alfred entered with his tray bearing two cups of steaming hot tea.
“Oh, I’m sorry to run,” Michael Davidson said immediately, standing with his suitcase. “But we’ve already concluded our meeting, sir.”
Alfred took it in grace. “Allow me to fetch you your belongings then, sir.”
“Of course, sir,” Michael said and Bruce was certain the man was doing it for his own amusement now. “And good night to you, Mr. Wayne.”
Bruce accepted the firm handshake as the man gave him one parting nod. Then he left.
And Bruce spent the entire night behind his desk, staring at the place the lawyer had once been.
***
When Tim was 7 years old, their doorbell had rung in the middle of a thunderstorm, 2 weeks after he’d risked his parents’ ire by asking to meet his dad. They’d been solemn but gracious about it, and even then Tim had spent the past 2 weeks feeling anxious and sick.
Would he like me?
What is Bruce Wayne like?
If they’re neighbours, why didn’t he come to see Tim before?
What if he hated him already?
Will his dad hate him now that his real-dad-not-dad is coming to see him? His dad didn’t really like Bruce Wayne…What if all three of his parents can’t get along?! What then!
His mother opened the door and instead of Bruce Wayne, it was a man in a suit that he’d seen visiting his parents at all hours of the day before. The man glanced at Tim, shot him a small smile that felt fake and sad and then whispered with his mother right there on the doorstep. He didn’t even bother to come in.
Jack entered the foyer and spotted Tim, then made his way over to him.
His dad crouched. “Hey, bud. What are you doing up this hour of the night?”
“Mom was reading me Le Petit Prince,” Tim told him, mellow and unhappy and not knowing why.
“Mm,” Jack hummed, nodding as he rubbed Tim’s back. “How about we go finish it?”
“You can’t read French,” Tim reminded his dad.
“Says who?” Jack shot back, raising his brows playfully.
Tim would have smiled if he wasn’t feeling so nauseous. A sensation that became infinitely worse when his mother thanked the man in the suit and shut the door. She didn’t turn around and Jack also noted that, trading a small glance at Tim.
“Honey?” Jack asked, hesitant and trying not to show it.
Janet turned around, a serene smile fixed on her face that glowed with the butter yellow of the elaborate chandelier. “All is well, darling. However, Bruce has declined, there’s nothing more to be done.”
Declined…? Tim repeated to himself, confused.
His mother’s blue eyes locked onto his. “I’m sorry, baby. Daddy said ‘no’, okay?”
Tim’s stomach bottomed out and he thought he was definitely about to throw up on his bare toes, but daddy grabbed his arm, turning him around gently. “Hey. Hey hey hey hey. It’s okay, you’re okay, bud, you hear me? You have me. I’m your daddy. Forget, Bruce Wayne. The man’s a bimbo anyway.”
He wrapped Tim up in a hug and picked him up, letting the boy slump against him as he started to cry. “Timmy...Timmy...don’t cry. Everything’s going to be okay. I have you. Okay? Daddy’s got you.”
And you know what? Jack did have him. As busy as his parents were; his dad with all his flights to different D.I. holdings across the globe and his mom with her art conservation that kept her busy at numerous museums with she coordinating the movement, installment and upkeep of various oil paintings.
They were busy; but they were there as often as they could be. And he had his French Nanny who was the best at her job, so much so that he rarely had to ask the Drake Family butler for anything.
So it was easy to try to forget that Bruce said ‘no’. That he didn’t want to know Tim and he didn’t want to meet. They hadn’t even asked Bruce to claim him, just to meet and the man had said no. But he was glad that it didn’t go terribly over with Jack when he’d asked to meet his bio-dad in the first place. It would have hurt if in his bid to see Bruce he’d made himself lose Jack too. But then—
When Tim turned 9, he used his parents timely absences to strike out in Gotham at night with his camera when his nanny was asleep.
He’d been doing it since he was 8, but that night was the most important because Robin did the quadruple somersault.
Dick’s quadruple somersault.
Suddenly it was no longer just, ‘my dad didn’t want me’ but now it was his hero, Batman, that didn’t want him. He wanted Dick.
Maybe Bruce didn’t even want kids, but Dick was an exception because Dick was an orphan who needed him and Dick could be Robin. Right. Okay. Fine.
But then as years went by, Bruce adopted a street kid called Jason Todd and Tim...Tim felt...a lot of things. So Bruce liked kids, but he didn’t want one who couldn’t be Robin? Or maybe he just wanted to adopt kids in bad situations instead of having his own? And that—that stung a little, but he had no choice but to accept that and let it go. What else could he do?
Then the man adopted Duke. Then Cassandra. So the man didn’t just like kids, he actively wanted them. Just not his own bio-son. Or maybe...Dick was Romanian, Jason was Hispanic, Duke was African-American, Cassandra was Chinese...maybe he didn’t want white kids? That hurt more than them just being random adoptions, so Tim wanted to think that was just coincidence. The man just wanted kids, just not his own. That’s…whatever. Fine. Fair enough.
Every new article and gala rolling out the new Wayne addition dug into his heart more and more though, seeing Bruce smiling with the kids he chose. The kids he wanted.
But it was fine. Tim didn’t fit Bruce’s criteria and Batman didn’t want a kid like him. Fine.
Then Damian was formally announced to the public. Bruce Wayne’s biological son. And...it couldn’t be made more clear. Bruce wanted his kids, he just didn’t want Tim.
And for the first time, Tim couldn’t sweep the hurt under the rug. He’d caused the ugly side of Tim to flare up in it’s cave.
But that was Future!Tim’s problem. Present!Tim had no idea. He was on a plane landing in Gotham, curious about the out-of-character Wayne Summer Gala for the Arabic kid that’s been living with the Waynes for the past 2 years and he was worried about his friend, clueless.
Tomorrow’s problems, some might say. Because on July 19th when Tim goes to the gala, he was going to absolutely flip out.