Chapter Text
No one has ever asked Tim Drake what his favorite month of the year is, but if anyone ever did, Tim would tell them honestly that it was December.
Sure, it’s harder to follow Batman and Robin in December, but petty crime goes way down with the cold and all the holiday charity drives, so you never get very good action shots unless the Rogues are out anyway. Half the time Robin just stays bundled up in Batman’s cape while they drink hot chocolate and wait for bedtime, and that’s just boring. (It also makes something really uncomfortable twist in the pit of Tim’s stomach, watching the look on Batman’s face as he glances down at his bundled Robin. But Tim doesn’t like to think about that. It’s boring, and that’s why he doesn’t like it. No other reason.)
But the charity drives? Tim is all about the holiday charity drives.
It’s a well-known fact of Gotham—and, well, probably the world over, but especially old money Gotham—that rich people only care about poor people when it’s fashionable, and never is it as fashionable as it is in December.
The Gotham Hospital Holiday Toy Drive. The Wayne Christmas Eve Charity Gala. The Aster-Cohen Family Chanukah Ball to Benefit Dying Orphans or Something Like That. (Tim is pretty sure that isn’t the actual name, but he doesn’t think he’s heard anyone call it anything else as long as he’s been paying attention. The Asters and the Cohens are even more transparent than most in doing the fashionable-rich-people-charity thing, and sure, the Aster-Cohens may be ethnically Jewish, but Tim’s pretty sure they only doubled down on Chanukah because sometimes it comes first in the holiday calendar.)
All those and a dozen others to boot, all to benefit the Gotham Philharmonic or the Gotham Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Gotham Villain Rehabilitation Center or whatever cause is especially fashionable this year. Each of them the event of the season. Each of them not to be missed by anyone who wishes to be anyone in Gotham’s upper crust.
Which of course means the Drakes will cancel any trip home for eleven months of the year, but they will never dare to cancel the one in December. Sometimes it's the trip in November, if both Tim and the Aster-Cohens are especially lucky.
That’s what makes December so fun. The Drakes, all three of them, rush from one event to the next, always making sure to enter together and leave together as the perfect family they are. Jack and Janet Drake spend night after night extolling Tim’s virtues to anyone who will listen, and Tim can’t stop smiling from ear to ear the entire month.
It’s not all fun and games, of course. For the Drakes, these parties are a different kind of work, and Tim is old enough to help now. After their grand entrance, the Drakes will split up to cover more territory. Jack Drake goes straight to the open bar, ordering a whiskey to fit in with the other men making jokes about their wives and talking about moves in the stock market. Janet Drake beelines for the vapid society women in the middle of the room, running circles around them with her wit and acid tongue.
Tim takes a little bit more time, carefully scouting the party to see where he is most useful. Sometimes there are kids his age, and he’ll make his way over to them. Kids always know more than their parents think they do, and more often than not, Tim brings back the sort of useful tidbits his parents will take from the ballroom to the boardroom. For that to work, though, the right kids need to be there, and the right kids need to not be there. If the Wayne kids are there, Tim can kiss his hard work goodbye. The Wayne kids never drop a secret (Tim knows that better than most), and if they’re around, the other kids will just mutter resentfully and make racist and classist jokes to hide their obvious jealousy at how awesome the Wayne kids are (Tim knows that awesomeness better than most too).
So if either Dick or Jason has shown up, Tim heads for the older crowd. They’re the mothers or fathers or aunts or uncles or former CEOs or past board members or now-honorary chairwomen that no other kid will go near if they can help it. They’re the cheek-pinchers who spin stories about the “good old days,” when men were men and women were women, which would be when Janet Drake would start rolling her eyes, if she could stand to be near them.
But she can’t, and Tim can, and that’s why Tim endures every cheek pinch or sexist story that comes his way. Because they know secrets too, and they’re dying to tell someone, if only to prove they’re still relevant. (They aren’t, really, but Tim plays into the delusion when it suits him.)
So Tim does his research, and he plays his part well. For the Aster-Cohens, he likes playing dreidel but loves lighting the menorah best. For the Robinsons, he can’t wait to see what Santa will bring him this year. For his own parents, he waxes poetic about the time-honored traditions of his Peruvian ancestors and their spiritual connection to the winter solstice. (Tim waited for someone to point out that in Peru, a Southern Hemisphere country, the winter solstice would actually take place in June, but no one ever did. And the next year, Tim had different ancestors with different time-honored traditions, so he figures it was probably fine.)
Sure, when he was little Tim was confused by all the religions and heritages the Drakes claimed to have, but now he gets it. Businesspeople have to be flexible. “Everything to everyone,” his dad always says. (“Or just what they want most,” his mother adds, eying his dad in a way that always makes Tim wonder just a bit.)
Tim first saw the term “cultural appropriation” in a Gotham Gazette article, a couple years ago. There used to be a Kwanzaa gala along with all the other charity drives, and then Marcella Aster drank a little too much punch and started talking in an unfortunate accent, and then suddenly the Gotham Gazette was running an exposé on how a bunch of rich white people were celebrating Kwanzaa every year, and then the next year the rich people weren’t doing it anymore.
When he first saw the Gazette article, Tim had asked his mom what the difference was between the Kwanzaa thing and what they did, with all the different ancestors and traditions the Drakes claimed around the year.
His mom had raised an eyebrow. “Stupidity, Timothy.” She had gestured to the photo of Robert Van Gilder on the front page of the Gazette, the man proudly sporting a dashiki and dancing—kind of—to the music. “I look at this photo and know in an instant Robert is a pretender. No one is going to believe that man has any claim to African heritage whatsoever. This sort of thing simply isn’t okay these days, and it's patently ridiculous not to know the rules and change with the times. Ignorance is just another word for stupidity. Whatever else you may become, Timothy, never be stupid.”
Staring at the photo of Mr. Van Gilder, even then Tim knows what she really meant: never be stupid enough to leave proof. It's a lesson Tim takes to heart, with one notable nighttime exception.
This year, both Tim and the Aster-Cohens are especially lucky. Chanukah starts in November, so Tim actually gets his parents for Thanksgiving too. They don’t really do Thanksgiving; it’s a family holiday, so there’s no point in playing anything up for cameras. The staff has the day off, so one of Tim’s parents decides to order food from Boston Market out of some sort of nostalgia. It makes the whole thing pretty Thanksgiving-y, especially since they all sit at the table to eat it together.
At dinner, Tim’s mom picks up the embossed invitation to the Aster-Cohen spectacular and notes they have underlined "THIS IS NOT A POTLUCK" this year. Tim tells her that’s because the Benatars brought sufganiyot last year.
“It’s a classic Ashkenazi versus Sephardic feud,” Tim says sagely, showing off all his preparation for this year’s festivities. His mom smiles, a little shark-like and a little proud, and Tim beams for hours.
The sense of accomplishment carries him through the preparations for the Aster-Cohens, even when his suit and his shoes are just a little too tight and his hair is just a little too long for his parents’ liking. It’s fine, because soon they’ll get to the party, and they never have a bad thing to say about him at the parties.
This one is no exception. As though by design, as soon as they sweep through the doors, the three Drakes break formation. Jack goes to the bar. Janet spots some women from the Gotham University booster club. Tim notes that both Dick Grayson and Jason Todd are in attendance, so he drifts over to the old-timers.
He endures nearly a full hour of the usual “back in my day” talk, picking up juicy tidbits where he can (that hushed-up affair with a prostitute was going to get Drake Industries a shiny new contract for sure, just because Gerald Meisner thought a twelve-year-old was too young to know what “liaison” meant). He’s loitering near the edge of the older crowd, hoping an hour might be enough to earn himself a break, so it’s only by dumb luck that he happens to be close enough to hear Marcella Aster as she approaches the drinks table.
“So I was thinking, what better way to put all that tabloid nastiness behind us?” Marcella grabs a new glass of champagne off a tray, even though her last glass isn’t empty yet. Tim edges a little closer to her.
“The Gazette is hardly the usual tabloid rag,” says her companion. It’s Hermes Dejardin, one of Marcella’s on-again, off-again partners. Tim has no idea what either of them sees in the other, so he supposes that makes them perfect together. “You can’t treat a story from the Gazette like you can a Buzzwatch post. Though I simply have to wonder, Marcella, would anyone even remember that ridiculous gaffe if you didn’t keep mentioning it at party after party?”
Marcella sniffs disdainfully. “Of course they remember. Don’t play the fool, Hermie. It doesn’t suit you.”
Hermes rolls his eyes, though it’s anyone’s guess whether the eye-roll is for her attitude or her use of “Hermie.”
“I know just what we need,” Marcella continues. “You know the season is really lacking a blockbuster celebration in June, and summer is such a lovely time for a party. A garden party, in the old Southern plantation style. A true celebration of Juneteenth!”
Tim chokes on his sparkling cider. She…she can’t be serious?
“Just think of it, Hermie! Those beautiful dresses, the gentility we’ve been missing all these years. That can be the theme! A return to more civil times!”
Tim is barely holding back outright laughter now. Oh, yeah, civil times indeed. So civil they named a war after it.
Where Tim is finding it funny, though, someone else is barely holding back his fury. Jason Wayne is clearly overhearing this conversation too, and Tim knows that look. Jason is about to unload on Marcella. At the first party of the season, in front of all the people in the ‘anyone who’s anyone’ (or who thinks they are) elite of Gotham.
Jason might not care about that, and normally Tim admires that about him. But there’s no Dick or Bruce anywhere nearby to intervene, and that has secret-ending-bad-idea written all over it. Jason always sounds a lot more like Robin when he gets angry and forgets where he is. Robin has no place here.
Tim, however, was literally born for this world. And that means Tim can help.
“Why, Marcella! What a lovely idea!” Tim lies smoothly, stepping up beside her and effortlessly slipping into his professional gala persona. “But where would we find somewhere in Gotham with a garden worthy of such an event?”
Marcella, clearly thrown off by the child suddenly at her side, recovers masterfully. “My father’s estate would be perfect—”
“Oh, of course, of course, but it’s so close to the river, and that time of year, with the wind coming in from the east…” Tim clucks disapprovingly. “Well, if you think your father would be willing to risk it?”
It’s a subtle dig at the Aster patriarch, who always holds events like these at rented spaces rather than his own property. His estate is large, true, but it’s located on the newly-unfashionable side of Gotham. (Newly-unfashionable because the river has become a favorite dumping ground for Gotham’s rogues, and who knows what the breeze will pick up on any given day? Rumor has it the Asters aren’t staying at their lavish “country home” in upstate New York forty-nine weeks of the year because they like the views.)
As intended, Marcella bristles. “I’m sure it would be perfectly all right, but if little boys these days are afraid of a bit of wind, the botanical garden would also suffice—”
Tim gives a disappointed huff. “With the renovation closing down the Monet water lilies exhibit? You’d be better to have it in the city park!”
In contrast to Marcella, who is getting steadily angrier the longer this goes on, Hermes is clearly amused by the whole exchange. “Well, then, mon jeune ami, where would you propose?”
“I’m not sure…” Tim pretends to think. “Well, I suppose if I had to choose, the Gotham African-American Heritage Museum might be more appropriate, wouldn’t it? Don’t they have a really nice courtyard for just such occasions?”
Marcella flushes. “Not nearly as nice as the botanical garden.”
“Oh, without question,” Tim agrees readily, adding a slight laugh to sell it, “no argument from any of us there. But it would be good enough, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well…”
“You don’t think so?” Tim presses.
“No, no, it’s only…”
“Only what? You don’t think the space is large enough?”
Silence.
“Or perhaps the landscaping is too pedestrian?”
Marcella hesitates yet again.
“It must be something,” Tim continues, “seeing as just last month you told the Daily Planet that you attend every exhibit you can at the museum. I believe you raved about how much you ‘simply adored’ the place, if I remember correctly? In fact, I recall the author asked how often you visited, and you said you made a point to go every few weeks, right?”
Hermes snorts, and Marcella’s grip on her champagne flute gets dangerously tight.
“Now, why wouldn’t you want to make use of such a perfect opportunity? After all, by my calculations, you must be there every month anyway.”
Tim quirks an eyebrow at her, and Marcella can’t take it anymore. She abruptly starts advancing on Tim, pushing him back into the drinks table.
“I know what you’re implying, you little bastard. You can either shut your mouth now, or I swear I will make your life a living hell until you—”
“Excuse me,” someone interjects coldly. “Is there a problem here?”
They both look up to see Janet Drake towering over them. Tim winces, visibly, and Marcella seizes her chance.
“Your son,” she spits venomously, like the very word is poison, “all but called me a liar! And after insinuating my family’s illustrious grounds weren’t fit to hold a simple garden party. I have to ask, is this the way you’re teaching your child to behave? I would think anyone aiming to improve their position in society would be a little more careful about offending one of the oldest families in Gotham.”
Janet’s icy gaze settles on Tim, and he unconsciously stands up straighter.
“You are absolutely right, Marcella,” Janet announces once she’s sized up the situation. “Timothy, your behavior has been appalling. I’m afraid I must demand you apologize to our host’s daughter at once.”
Tim’s stomach sinks.
“Haven’t I always taught you to be forthright and truthful in all matters?” Janet continues. “And yet now I hear you insinuate Miss Aster is a liar?”
Tim can feel Marcella’s triumph, though he refuses to look her in the eye.
“Next time, Timothy, I expect better.” Janet turns back to Marcella. “I fully agree, Marcella. When someone is a liar, there is no sense in beating around the bush by insinuating such things. If they are a liar, and a bully, and a has-been clinging to a family status that has been steadily declining since the Reagan administration, tell them so and do not waste one more minute of your time on them.”
Tim’s head snaps up. It takes Marcella a few seconds longer, but when she finally understands, her face goes purple. She whirls on Janet.
“How dare you, you—you—you nouveau riche trash! Take your uncultured brat and leave this party immediately!”
“Rest assured, we are already out the door,” Janet promises. “And we shall be taking our ‘nouveau riche’ check with us as we go, so please give your father our regards and explain the situation to him fully. I certainly hope he can fund that new Aster-Cohen hospital wing without Drake Industries’ generous donation. It’s funny, isn’t it, how people don’t seem to care which century you earned your money as long as the bank transfer goes through.”
She leans in close to Marcella. “Think about that, the next time you want to threaten my son. Especially for the crime of daring to only insinuate your moral failings. Come, Timothy.”
Janet strides away imperiously, leaving Tim to follow in her wake. There will probably to hell to pay as soon as they get in the car—Tim can already see his dad scowling when his mom forces him to leave in the middle of his favorite story about that time he got a hole-in-one on the Bristol Country Club’s famed back nine—but for now, there’s an oddly warm sensation pooling in Tim’s chest as he trails after his mother.
It only burns brighter when Jason Wayne catches Tim’s eye on his way out the door. Jason holds up his glass in a silent salute, and Tim nearly stumbles as he realizes Jason heard the whole thing.
He’ll forget it by the World AIDS Day benefit next week, Tim thinks. But tonight?
Tonight Robin noticed him. And Tim didn’t even have to get captured by the Joker to do it.
There’s a sense of pride in that, for a Gothamite, considering the rarity.