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Tim thinks maybe he should be feeling something other than vague annoyance at the sheer inconvenience this situation is causing him. He’s not…unaware of how normal people would process it—it’s just, he’s always been a bit odd anyway. What’s one more tick in the column of how he can’t be, according to his peers, anything but an awkward little freak?
(Speak of a bully and he shall appear. Jordan Kensington is smirking from the pew across from him, imitating a really rude gesture that Tim, if he cared about anything right now, would be offended by. But Tim must be a sociopath, because he feels nothing but emptiness. He stares until Jordan looks away, and marks another tick in his column.)
Christmas Eve is probably a really bad time to have a funeral, especially a double one, but the funeral home offered a discount and no one thought it weird to give a newly orphaned thirteen year-old the sole power for planning his parents’ service.
It’s not like the Drakes were all that religious anyway, and Tim figured less of his parents’ peers would come if it was held at the same time as the Wayne Winter Gala for some charity Tim didn’t pay attention to. Tim does think it’s cool how Mr. Wayne seems to let his sons pick the charity each year. It was a practice his paren…dead parents tossed around for their next event. Which now wouldn’t be happening. You know. Because they were dead. Honestly, though, he’s just glad it’s provided an opportunity for most of Gotham’s elite to politely bow out. Save a few Drake Industries folks and the Kensingtons of course, but they were disinvited from any event Bruce Wayne attached himself to years ago. Something about their eldest’s (Chad Kensington) treatment of Dick Grayson when he was at Gotham Academy. Tim doesn’t know the details.
Gary Price walks over to Tim, who is now surreptitiously picking a leaf off the poinsettia closest to his father’s urn and tearing it into pieces in his hand.
“Timothy, chap, my deepest condolences.” The slimy smile that always sent shivers up and down Tim’s spine made him consider, for the briefest moment, shoving the poinsettia leaf in his mouth and hoping for a quick death. He tries to squirm away from the hand Mr. Price puts on his shoulder, but it’s a tight, almost bruising grip.
“Thank you.” His tone is clipped, bordering on rude. It’s a dismissal, and they both know it, but Gary Price stays.
“I was saying to Kensington what a shame it must be that a fine young man like yourself is made to go through something so tragic. Jack and Janet were simply the best.” The false sympathy grates on Tim’s nerves—Mr. Price and Jack once almost got in a fistfight over a comment Mr. Price drunkenly made about Jason Wayne just a year ago. (Needless to say, Gary Price was also blackballed from anything Wayne.)
The thing is, his mom and dad simply were the best, but having it said so insincerely by Bristol’s creepiest rich guy just makes Tim feel dirty. Maybe. As established earlier, Tim isn’t feeling much, actually.
(He thinks of his dad’s protective hand on his shoulder, instead, and the way his mom would destroy Mr. Price with just a smile and a soft, deceiving tone speaking devastating condemnations that left better men feeling chastised and small. “Chin up, shoulders back, and never let them get to you, honey. They aren’t worth the horse they rode in on.” That last part would have opened her up to teasing by Jack and Tim, who always found it funny when she slipped back into her childhood Eastern Tennessee accent.)
“If you don’t mind me asking—“ Tim did, “What are your plans next, son?” Not his son.
“I’m moving in with my uncle.” Tim looks around to see if the receiving line has any more guests to shoo Mr. Price away. Unfortunately, like all his luck lately, there is no one to save him. The older man makes a vaguely snorting sound and tsks, sweat beading down his forehead. The funeral home had turned up the heater, a surprising gesture of kindness, when they saw Tim shivering during the service. He didn’t have the heart to tell them it wasn’t because he was cold.
Jack and Janet always used to have an open invitation to the Waynes, Tim muses as Mr. Price drones on. They weren’t around much (doing archeology and foreign business-y things), but when they were, their family was always invited over. Tim remembers one Christmas Eve, playing Uno with Jason and Dick when he was eight, before he left for boarding school.
(“It’s the best one, kiddo. I loved my time there and I know you will too,” said his dad, with pride and tears in his eyes. His mom wasn’t quite on board, but both agreed after Tim fell into that pit they were working in and banged his head really hard, he needed to be in a safer location with peers his own age. “I know they’ll love you, sweets.” His mom said, after getting his private room set up. “You haven’t had much of a chance to be a normal kid. Your dad and I want to give that to you.” They never found out that, even among his peers, he wasn’t normal. He started sneaking out to Gotham proper when he was 10, and whenever his parents came back to Bristol every three or so months, he told them all about his “friends”, Wesley and Kip. He conveniently left out the fact that they most enjoyed spending time with him when his head was in the toilet.)
They stopped going to the Waynes’ home around the time Tim went to Brentwood, some sort of falling out between Janet and Mr. Wayne that Tim could never uncover no matter how hard he tried. The Waynes were unfailingly polite after that, but distant. Even Jason and Dick, though occasionally sending a message or two along with the gift basket Mr. Pennyworth sent him every semester, pulled back. It didn’t matter, really, Tim was too busy trying to survive fifth grade, but he kind of mourned the loss. They were the only people besides his parents who treated him kindly.
Tim wonders why he’s being so reminiscent right now, and checks back in with Gary Price who is handing him a business card.
“Well, young man, have that uncle of yours call me and we’ll set up an internship. It would be awful for that wonderful mind of yours to go to waste.” He says “wonderful” and “mind” really uncomfortably, and Tim nods, sighing as the man finally removes his hand from his shoulder.
The funeral director wanders over and clears his throat, making his apologies and shooing Mr. Price away. He looks sympathetically at Tim, and lowers his voice.
“We need to close up for the night. Is your uncle here to sign those papers?”
Tim clears his throat. He thinks this is when he will finally feel something but everything is still dulled.
“You can send it to him at the address I gave you. Unfortunately, he got caught in the snowstorm on I-70 and can’t make it in time.”
Tim knew, as soon as the policeman and social worker showed up to the headmaster’s office, that he just couldn’t go into foster care. He’d seen enough houseless kids on the streets to know how that would work out for him.
His mom was an only child from a modest upbringing in Appalachia. Tim didn’t even know if she still had family, since at eighteen she left and never turned back. She met Jack at a diner in Philly, where he was escaping all the roles and expectations of his own family, and though they came from completely different backgrounds, it was love at first sight. Jack’s parents threatened to take away his trust fund and remove him from the will, but he was also an only child, and Tim’s grandfather never went through with it. When his grandparents died from heart attacks just two months apart from each other, Jack inherited a large fortune, the family manor, and a company he never really wanted. Tim was just six months old, and both his parents aimed to be the opposite of what they both grew up with.
Tim should honestly be thankful he got so much time with them. No Gothamite lives without some sort of tragedy in their backstory. Heck, each of the Waynes all lost their parents way earlier than him, and look at how much better they dealt with it.
Tim’s “uncle” was a desperate attempt to give himself time to figure out what he was going to do. He was saved through the apathy of Gotham PD and the overflowing caseload of his social worker and the kindness of his always well-meaning, but absent-minded headmaster who said Tim could stay at Bentwood through the new year since his parents had already paid tuition. The three adults never looked past Tim’s own word about his made-up relation, and all the board of directors at Drake Industries did was send him a bereavement card and a phone number to a lawyer that he was supposed to contact about the company and trust and will.
Tim, in the spirit of his father long ago, didn’t want it. Tim didn’t want anything, really, except his parents alive and their warm embraces and their incredibly dorky Christmas carols that they always sang while driving around looking at lights.
Tim gathers his things, puts on his coat,and grabs his phone to call an Uber. Holding a poinsettia in one arm and a backpack with his parents’ urns in the other, he follows the funeral director into the lobby. He gives a quiet thanks and leaves to sit on the front steps of the building.
The night is actually quite peaceful, a juxtaposition Tim thinks is betrayal to the swirling something pushed deep down inside him, and large fluffy snowflakes are falling quietly from the night’s sky. Maybe if he walks over to the cemetery next to the funeral home, he could just find a hole and lay down in it.
A car pulls in quickly to the round driveway, and Tim stands, ready to hop in, go back to his dorm room, and burrow under his covers until he gets kicked out on January 1st.
The driver’s side door opens, and instead of Grace J., the ride he just confirmed, a large man steps out quickly, imposing but oh so familiar.
Tim’s eyebrows raise. “Mr. Wayne?”
“Tim.” Mr. Wayne breathes out with relief, but also a bit pained. He approaches carefully, despite breathing hard like he ran a marathon. “I came as quickly as I heard.”
Tim scrunches his forehead in confusion. He was sure the Waynes had a party scheduled for tonight and assumed they heard about Jack and Janet’s death in the paper and just…didn’t care. Granted, it was only a small paragraph in the Business Section (his parents’ disgust for networking meant they were mostly known in archeological circles overseas), but Batman rarely misses anything.
(Tim should know, after following the vigilantes for at least the past three years. He shudders to think if his parents had ever found out, since his mom always seemed uncharacteristically uncharitable about the heroes. He’s glad she didn’t know their identities—she was already pretty tightlipped about Mr. Wayne since whatever that fight was about.)
Mr. Wayne is apparently a mind reader because he explains, incredibly gently, “We were out of town for this past month. Skiing.”
Tim nods, doubtful that’s what they were doing, but unwilling to pry more. He just wants to fall in his bed and not wake up, so whatever secret mission they had probably been on instead, didn’t really matter at the end of the day.
“Are you…I mean, I can imagine how..I wanted to…check on you?” Mr. Wayne trails off weakly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Tim wonders if this is hitting too close to home for him—of course, Tim is practically ancient compared to when the man’s own parents were killed. It wasn’t even that traumatic of a death, really—it would have been so much worse to watch his mom and dad shot to death like Mr. Wayne had to, rather than finding out they were in a freak accident where the site they were working at had an undetonated landmine.
At least he hadn’t seen it happen (despite the event taking front and center in his dreams every night for the past three weeks).
“I’m fine.” And Tim is pretty frustrated that his body is choosing now to start feeling…things. He’s so close to everything being done. He’s going to Brentwood, then figuring out where to go next. Maybe he’ll follow his mom’s footsteps. Find a diner or something in Philly. See if they’ll hire a 13 year-old under the table. He could probably pass for 16 if he figures out how to do makeup or something.
It’s at this point his phone rings. Juggling the items in his arms, he jumps slightly when Mr. Wayne reaches to take the poinsettia and backpack (Tim allows him the poinsettia but keeps a viselike grip on the backpack). He hits the speaker, as he wobbles on the steps which have become even more slippery from the snow. Mr. Wayne grabs his shoulder steadily, and Tim briefly observes how it’s such a different grip than Gary Price’s.
“Hello?” Tim’s voice cracks a bit.
“Timothy,” the cheerful tone from his usually jovial headmaster is subdued, “I know I promised January, but I had a distant family emergency and need to close the dorms early. Since all the other boys left for the holidays, and you mentioned your uncle was attending the service with you today, do you think he’d be amenable to you staying with him until you can come back to pack up your room? If not, the social worker who dropped by the other week left her card. We could probably call her.”
Tim speaks quickly, avoiding the sharp eyes of the man in front of him. “N-no sir, we don’t need to. Uncle Eddie will be happy to do that. I promise.”
“Ok. I’d feel more comfortable if you could put him on the phone with me? We still haven’t caught up with him to sign the papers for your withdrawal. I want to make sure you’re ok?”
Tim chokes, and pretends Mr. Wayne isn’t listening. This may not be the worst case scenario but it is still a pretty bad scenario.
“Ah. Well. He’s on his way. Running a few minutes late. He got stuck in a snowstorm up in, um, Rochester. I-I can tell him you need him to stop by when you get back?”
“Are you sure, son? I need to catch my flight but I’d really feel better with some confirmation from your guardian. Maybe we should see if your social worker can come stay with you until he arrives?” His headmaster sounds distracted and harried. Tim feels bad for lying but feels his heart rate pick up and his cheeks get warm despite the cold weather.
Suddenly he feels the phone being pried gently from his hand and watches in slow-motion as the speaker is turned off.
“Dr. Decker, this is Bruce Wayne. Yes, yes, I’m sorry to hear about your family member. Mhmm…Mmm…Ok, wow, of course. I just wanted to vouch for Timothy here. I can stay with him until his…uncle, was it?…his uncle comes. Yes, of course. I will. Merry Christmas to you, as well.”
Mr. Wayne hangs up and holds the phone for a second before handing it slowly back to Tim. The silence between them is thickening and Tim shivers and wishes he had brought a hat or gloves.
“My car is still running. Would you like to sit in the front seat where the heater is blowing?”
Tim shrugs but walks down the steps with Mr. Wayne. He watches as Mr. Wayne carefully puts the plant in the back seat, and opens the passenger door for Tim. Hugging his backpack, Tim slides in. The warmth hits him immediately, and he sinks down into the heated seat.
Mr. Wayne walks around the car, texting someone from his own phone, and after a few minutes, also gets in. He closes the door, the radio softly playing Christmas music. Tim almost laughs wildly at hearing Dominic the Donkey while he sets his mom and dad’s ashes in his lap. Tim almost thinks he is crazy.
It’s silent for a moment, and Tim looks out the window, wondering how he can play this. Mr. Wayne doesn’t give him much time. His voice is soft, understanding.
“Your parents were only children.”
Tim nods once, willing himself not to look over, not to give in to the temptation to be rude, just for once in his life, to give in to the chasm inside him.
“What’s your plan, kiddo?”
Tim, unfeeling-unmoved-probably a sociopath-Tim, snorts meanly, finally one feeling bubbling up. It’s anger. He’s surprised.
“Like you even care.”
Mr. Wayne hums. “Try me.”
“I’m not going into foster care. I’m not…I’m not stupid.”
“Where are you going, Tim?”
Tim rolls his eyes and clutches his backpack tighter. “Away.”
“That seems,” Mr. Wayne appears to be picking his words carefully, “unsafe.”
Tim laughs humorously. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I got a lot of options.” He hates how utterly young he sounds.
“I could help you come up with some?”
The track changes to All I Want for Christmas is You and all Tim feels is exhaustion. He finally looks at Mr. Wayne.
“Why did you and Mom stop talking?”
Mr. Wayne sighs, his eyes kind and sad. “It was complicated.”
Tim scoffs.
“It. She and I had a significant disagreement. Over you, in fact. It escalated. I said things I regretted later. She was…right to be angry about it.”
“What about?”
“Your school. Their work. Um. My work. She found out something private about me and the boys, and said I had no right to call her decisions into question when I was…doing something worse. She was worried about our influence. She and your dad loved you very much, you know. I…They had been some of my best friends for several years now, Tim, even before you were born. I’m sorry for forgetting that for a while.”
Tim thinks very hard about his mom, and what could have come between them to the point that even Jason and Dick pulled back. He thinks about her distaste for Batman, how she never really talked about Mr. Wayne after Tim went to Brentwood, and starts to get the picture.
“I never knew what it was,” Tim starts, “Mom never told me. She kept your secret even when I cried the first Christmas we didn’t go over to your house. She just said, ‘Sometimes friends have disagreements. I believe in Bruce. It’ll work out in the end.’”
Tim looks at Mr. Wayne again, surprised to see tears in his eyes. “And I never knew she knew, but I found it out on my own later.”
Mr. Wayne adjusts his seat and twists to better see Tim. “Found out what, Tim?”
“Who you were. Are. And Dick and Jason. I follow—followed you around at night. Um, because school was. Is…yeah. Anyway...” Tim trails off and the car is oppressively silent.
“This thing you found out,” Mr. Wayne clears his throat, “has to do with—“
Tim takes pity on him. “A bat, right? And birds.” He shrugs. “You really should try to act meaner when you’re in the costume, Mr. Wayne. You give Robin and Nightwing the same hugs as you do when you’re just…normal.”
Mr. Wayne chokes out a laugh. “Normal, huh? I don’t know, kiddo, I always thought normal was overrated.”
Tim has a ghost of a smile. “Yeah…I guess.”
Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) plays and Tim feels something slide down his face. He brings his hand up to his eye and it comes away wet.
“Oh.” He exclaims softly.
“Bud.” Mr. Wayne shifts forward and begins rubbing Tim’s back. “I’m so sorry.”
Tim hiccups, and mortifyingly, can’t stop. In fact, the tears fall faster.
Tim tries to hold off, but he hears a whine escape him, and hugs his backpack harder. The sobs pick up, and he briefly thinks he feels the hand leave his back. He barely registers the ding of a car door opening, but soon, arms come around him and he tips forward into Mr. Wayne’s chest—Mr. Wayne, who is kneeling in dirty snow and slush, seemingly without a care in the world except holding onto Tim.
“Shh, shh, shh. Let it out, Timmy. There you go. Take all the time you need, kiddo.”
And Mr. Wayne must have meant that because he stays kneeling without shifting one inch. Patient. Steady. So, so kind. Exactly how Tim remembers when he was 4 and 5 and 6 and 7 and 8.
Finally, eventually, they break apart. Mr. Wayne gives Tim a handkerchief and walks back around the car, giving Tim some time to blow his nose and wipe his face.
Tim feels everything. Tim is feeling, Tim is moved, Tim is angry, Tim is devastated, Tim is empty, Tim is full, Tim is exhausted, Tim is.
Tim is grieving.
The realization slams into him like a thousand dodgeballs and he lets out a wounded, quiet keen.
Mr. Wayne turns the radio off and faces Tim again, serious and understanding.
“Come home with me.”
Tim sniffs loudly. “What?”
“Come home with me. Jason and Dick and Alfred are waiting with hot chocolate. Or you can go straight to your room and go to bed. No pressure to do anything or talk to anyone if you don’t want to. You were going to stay in the dorm until New Year’s right? Stay with us instead.” He makes the request quickly, as if unsure how Tim would react.
“And. And what about after New Year’s?” Tim asks hoarsely.
“Let’s tackle that then, ok? One day at a time, one minute at a time, and we’ll tackle it then.” Mr. Wayne looks a cross between hopeful and incredibly sad.
Tim doesn’t know the right thing to do. He looks down at his backpack. He nods. He hears his mom saying, “I believe in Bruce. It will work out in the end.”
Tim’s not sure he believes it yet, but as they carefully drive away, Mr. Wayne navigating the ice and humming to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, he puts his backpack on the floor in front of him and believes he might be able to get there.