Chapter Text
Tim's just been sold to One Direction.
Wait. Pause. Back up. Tim has just been sold to the Waynes.
He feels like fanfiction should have prepared him more for this. However, standing on the driveway and staring up at Wayne Manor, Tim feels like a stereotypical school kid about to take a math test they didn’t study for.
“Bruce Wayne recently lost his son,” Tim’s mother says, his father rustling the paper he’s reading pointedly. “The man must be overcome with grief, surely. He’s in need of a…bright spot in the house.” Tim is 100% certain his mother is quoting a report made by his nanny when he was six. “Of course, we’ve considered this decision carefully, but since the Waynes are our neighbors and the generous sort, they’ve agreed to take you in.”
In other words, his parents got tired of Tim’s presence in their house and took Jason Todd’s death as an excuse to both get rid of Tim and make money out of it.
He hopes he was worth a lot of money.
Now he’s here, dithering at the gate of the driveway to Wayne Manor, a backpack slung over his shoulders and a dingy wagon his nanny would pull him around the yard in as a kid holding a duffel bag with his most important items (camera, pictures, computer hard drive, his one stuffed animal, and a few clothes he can’t buy more of). All he has to do is press the button and ask Mr. Pennyworth to open the gate. Just…lift up his arm and push his finger against it. That’s it.
Probably three minutes and forty-two seconds pass by (he wasn’t counting, he wasn’t) before there’s a quiet beep and the gate opens without Tim having to move a muscle. Oh, right. They’re Bats. Of course they have cameras, which means they’ve been able to see Tim making a fool of himself in front of their property the whole time.
Well, may as well try to keep what bits of his dignity he has left intact. Tim takes the long walk up the driveway (seven minutes and eight seconds, which is two minutes longer than his own driveway, even accounting for Tim’s slightly slower pace with the wagon) to the front of the manor. The front door is, of course, on a raised porch, and Tim gears himself up to haul his wagon up the stairs before he realizes there’s a long ramp off to the side.
Huh. Guess Wayne Manor is ADA compliant? Or maybe it’s for when they get seriously injured on patrol and can’t take stairs. Probably that.
Tim pulls his wagon up the ramp and hesitates in front of the door. There’s definitely cameras here, but he’s not going to make them take pity on him and open the door before he knocks. Tim was raised with manners, thank you very much.
He can do this. Just lift his hand and knock on the door. Or ring the bell! That’s also a choice he could make.
His hand is too heavy to move, and the other one is holding onto the wagon handle. What if Tim…doesn’t knock? What if he takes this chance to run away and stage his death and make a new life in England? He can fake an English accent, easy.
No. No, the Waynes paid for him, so they want him, even if it’s just to get their money’s worth. Tim won’t make them waste their money (even if Bruce Wayne is way richer than the Drakes could ever hope to be).
Just knock on the door, Drake. Use that brain of yours to activate the nerves that command your muscles to move and knock on the door.
Why is his hand so heavy?
Eventually (six minutes and thirty-three seconds later), he manages to gather the courage to knock. Sure, he doesn’t lift his hand, instead keeping it hanging limp at his side and sort of…hitting his knuckles on the wood near his hip, but he does! He even manages to get it loud enough on the first try.
The door opens immediately–of course it does, Tim’s been standing here for seven minutes– to reveal a figure balancing on crutches in a manner that screams ‘lazy delinquent’ even when it should be canceled out by ‘horribly injured’. Tim’s too discombobulated to focus on that, though, because the person standing in front of him is Jason.
Jason fucking Todd.
Isn’t he supposed to be dead?!
“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Tim blurts before he can stop himself and immediately regrets it, slapping a hand over his mouth. Stupid. Way to make a good first impression, Drake. There goes what dignity he had left.
Jason–Jason Todd, the second Robin, Tim’s hero!–raises an eyebrow. “Hello to you too, I guess.”
Tim manages to circumvent the urge to facepalm by using that hand to wave weakly instead. “Hello,” he adds after a second, “I’m Timothy Drake. Uh. My parents…”
Sold me to your dad to replace you?? What is Tim supposed to say?
“...Sent me here. To stay.”
Well, he didn’t exactly nail it, but at least he said something.
Jason (Jason Todd!!) mumbles something that sounds like Participated in barely-legal child trafficking more like, but Tim might be imagining it. “Yeah,” he says, leaning on his crutches in a way that should not be cool but somehow is. “Bruce stressed about the paperwork for two days. C’mon, let me show you to your room, you can drop your stuff there. I’ll give you a tour afterwards.”
Oh my god. Jason Todd is okay with Tim living in his house. Jason Todd wants to give him a tour.
Tim ruthlessly suppresses the hope that the Batcave will be on the list of approved tour spots. Because it will not be. No matter how much he wishes that it would.
Oh, yeah. Moving.
“Sure,” Tim says, starting forward before thinking better of it and pulling his duffel bag out of the cart (he really shouldn’t track dirt inside on his first day, within his first minute).
The main entranceway and hallway is opulent–rich people’s houses always are, they’re built that way to show off their wealth–but the further in Tim’s led, the decorations grow less flashy and more…home-y? There’s trophies that look like they’re from competitive events. Tim spies one labeled debate (Jason Todd took debate club in freshman year and led the team to nationals and won) and another marked as ‘honors.’
There’s also, Tim carefully notes, marks on some of the walls and scuffs on the floor. Divots from Batarangs! In the main house? Is that a bloodstain? Is Tim walking over floorboards that Batman or one of the Robins bled on?
Cool!
“Stairs here,” Jason says, cutting off Tim’s thoughts with a waving hand at a grand staircase. “Elevator is right behind them, this way.”
The house is Bat-injury compliant!
Tim tries not to make any weird movements in the elevator–he’s already ruined his chances of looking even a bit cool in front of his hero, but he still has a chance to not be rude or, god forbid, disregarding of personal space.
Luckily he manages to keep his hands to tapping at his thighs, which doesn’t seem to be noticed. “My room’s this one,” Jason Todd (he’s still not over this. He might never be over it) says, pointing at a cracked door. “Don’t go in it unless I say so. Over here is Dick’s room.” He gestures at a closed door across the hall. “He’ll spend the night over sometimes, so don’t go snooping if you don’t want him to notice. Bathroom’s down that way, and you can choose whatever room you want to be yours.”
Tim is still reeling from the unhelpful thrill of mishearing bathroom as Bat-room, so he doesn’t respond right away. When he gets his brain back on track, though, he gestures to the room on the other side of Jason’s. “Is this one okay?”
Jason raises an eyebrow, and Tim almost backtracks before he says, “Yeah, sure. I stay up late sometimes, though, so you might hear, like, music or stuff through the walls. If that’s something that’ll bother you.”
Tim shakes his head so quickly it kinda hurts. Sharing a wall with Jason Todd like they’re actual siblings is so worth it. Plus, Tim will probably be out at night either way-
Oh. Oh no.
He’s going to have to sneak out of Wayne Manor. Like, home-of-the-Batman Wayne Manor. World-class-security-measures Wayne Manor.
Either that, or he has to find the Batcave-and actually, more domestic photos in the Batcave would be so cool, but it kind of feels like an invasion of privacy.
Or, uh. More of an invasion of privacy.
Jason shrugs. “Well, you can always switch rooms if it turns out to be too much. Not like there’s a shortage of them here.” He leads the way and opens the door to Tim’s chosen room, which looks a lot like an empty version of his bedroom in the Drake Manor but automatically ten times cooler because it’s in Wayne Manor. “You wanna unpack and then finish the tour, or the other way around?”
“Other way around,” Tim says, “and I should probably put my cart somewhere, right? I don’t want to just leave it on your doorstep.” That would be rude. Not as rude as being bought as an unnecessary replacement and then living in the room next to the person you were supposed to replace as a constant reminder, though.
Wait, Mr. Wayne has to know that Jason is alive.
So why the hell is Tim here?
“Don’t worry about it,” Jason says, oblivious to Tim’s internal panic. “Alfred probably moved it to the garden shed or something. Just drop your stuff here and meet me at the elevator, okay?” He turns around and leaves the room; Tim can hear the muffled sound of crutches hitting the runner rug in the hallway as he moves.
For now, Tim just dumps his stuff next to the bed and hurries after Jason. He can organize later, when he isn’t getting a tour or panicking about Mr. Pennyworth having to move his cart off the front porch before even meeting Tim.
His first impression is an inconvenience. Not off-brand, but not what he wanted it to be.
Jason shows him around downstairs–or, at least, “The parts we actually use, because rich people love to have a million rooms that do nothing but collect dust.” He doesn’t seem particularly bothered or even slowed down by his crutches, moving around with them like he’s always had them. “Basically all the rooms that matter are near the kitchen, because why walk a million steps across the manor to the living room when there’s already one right next to it?”
He also shows Tim the library (“Probably my favorite room, honestly”) and the game room (“Really just a living room that we added a huge TV to and store all the board games in”) and even Bruce Wayne’s office.
“Bruce works from home a lot, when he’s not out on business trips or at galas,” Jason says, looking at the closed door. “Honestly, I stopped asking what he does years ago, but it involves a lot of meetings, so always knock and have him call you in. Sometimes he’s busy, though, so if you don’t get a response or he says no, you’ll have to try again later.”
Tim just nods. He will never purposefully disturb Bruce Wayne while he’s working. Unless, like, Jason falls down the stairs or something-but only if he’s bleeding or broken. Otherwise, Jason can probably do some sort of Robin thing and be okay.
“Okay.” Jason looks around, seeming to gather his thoughts. “Any questions? ‘Cause otherwise I’m going to the kitchen. I think Alfred’s making lunch and I’m hungry.”
“Thanks for the tour,” Tim tells him, trying to tone down how much he means it, because it’s probably a little weird to be this grateful to see someone’s house.
…Wait, is Jason implying that Tim should come to the kitchen, or just dismissing him? Fuck. This sucks, actually, this is terrible and Tim hates it. As cool as it is that he’ll be living with the Waynes, learning new rules and having people around watching him to make sure he doesn’t break them is going to be so weird.
Jason stares at him silently; Tim tries not to fidget, wondering if he’s already done something wrong. After a few seconds, Jason shrugs and turns around, crutches clicking down the hallway. Is Tim supposed to follow him? Go to his room? He did say he’d unpack after the tour, and this counts as after, technically.
On the other hand, he doesn’t want to be caught wandering the halls aimlessly like an inaccurately-dressed Victorian ghost. So, Tim hurries to catch up with Jason, and quietly asks, “Can I come with you?”
“Huh?” Jason looks at Tim from the corner of his eye, slowing down slightly to let Tim catch up. He’s fast on those crutches! “Yeah, sure. I mean, it’s your house too, now. Kind of a mostly-communal space and all.”
“Thanks.” Tim knows, logically, what a communal space is. However, his brain is screaming and dying at the thought of being in his house (new house?) and knowing someone could walk into the room at any moment.
Not that Tim is doing anything weird, or planning on doing anything weird that other people shouldn’t see. It’s just… he kind of has two modes, Alone-Tim and People-Tim, and he’s not sure he can be People-Tim all the time.
Of course, Jason can’t read minds (Tim checked), so he doesn’t notice Tim’s minor freakout, leading the way to the kitchen. As soon as he passes the threshold, he’s calling out, “Hey, A! Lunch ready yet?”
“Indeed, Master Jason.” Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler, says from where he’s standing at the stove. Even while cooking he wears a suit, but he’s got an apron on and his sleeves rolled up. “Considering today’s schedule, I prepared something simple to ease any possible stress.” Turning around, he places a plate each in front of two chairs at the small table pushed to the corner of the kitchen, a grilled sandwich on each. A moment later he adds two bowls. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup.”
Jason grins, not seeming to notice how it pulls at his bandages or the split lip Tim was trying to ignore commenting on. “Thanks, Alfie. You’re the best.” He throws himself into one of the chairs and starts eating without a care.
The other plate is for Tim, right? Probably.
“Hello,” he says to Mr. Pennyworth, because manners, “it’s nice to meet you. I’m Timothy Drake.” Even though he definitely already knows Tim’s name.
“Likewise, Master Timothy,” Mr. Pennyworth returns. “I’ve made a portion for you as well, if you would like to join Master Jason. You do not have any food allergies, correct?”
“No allergies,” Tim confirms. So the plate is for him, great. He sits down, trying to sit politely (?) and not take up too much space without looking like he’s hiding. Because he isn’t. There’s nowhere to hide in here.
“Excellent.” He shouldn’t be nervous, really. Still, he–casually–looks up at Mr. Pennyworth, trying to tell if the word is genuine, but the butler is once more facing the stove and Tim can’t see his expression. “I would like to learn of your food preferences eventually, but that can wait for another day. Until then, you are allowed to eat any snacks in the kitchen unless they are otherwise labeled. I will also be making lasagna tonight, as Master Dick requested it for dinner. Are you amenable to that, or should I prepare you an alternate meal?”
“Lasagna sounds great, thank you.” Is Tim being too formal? Not formal enough? Where is the overlap between ‘respectful’ and ‘cool enough that Jason Todd will want to be my friend (and maybe someday brother)’?
…Not that Tim can manage cool on the best of days, actually, so that might be a moot point.
Any response Tim might gain in return is overlapped by Jason. “Dick’s kind of a lot,” he says, mouth full of food. Mr. Pennyworth clears his throat, and Jason rolls his eyes but swallows before he continues. “He loves mother-henning and being fussy, so if you get overwhelmed at dinner no one will blame you if you leave early. Also he’s touchy as fu– rick,” Jason glances quickly at Mr. Pennyworth, “so if you don’t like hugs or stuff like that, make sure to tell him. He’ll be respectful, promise.”
Right. Because there are people who would turn down a hug from Dick Grayson. Somewhere.
Although, more than one or two might make Tim’s head explode or something, so maybe Jason has a point.
No one will blame you if you leave early. Tim… doesn’t know what to think about that. Even if Jason means it, does he mean it in an it's-normal way, or in a let's-give-the-new-kid-extra-privileges way, where it will slowly become less and less acceptable without any clear boundaries set?
Oh shit. Responding.
“Thanks,” Tim says again, hoping he isn’t repeating himself too much. At some point he’ll run out of energy and be physically incapable of overthinking this much, right? Can that point happen now?
Jason raises an eyebrow at him, which Tim would maybe worry about more if he didn't also have tomato soup on his chin. “‘Kay. I'm gonna go do PT after this, so you can, I dunno, go unpack or explore or take a nap until dinner.” He gestures with the last bite of his grilled cheese before it's devoured. “Alfred'll call you down when it's time.”
Good luck with? Have fun with?
“Hope PT goes well,” Tim decides on, starting to eat faster. He hadn’t been expecting the possibility that he’d be left alone with Mr. Pennyworth-which shouldn’t be scary, but kind of is-and Jason leaving is making Tim feel uncomfortably like he’s floundering. He’s never floundered physically before, but he’s pretty sure it would be just like this.
“Thanks,” Jason says with a snort, stacking his dishes and moving them to the end of the table. Is that what Tim's supposed to do with his dishes, too, or is this something Jason-specific because he's on crutches? He could ask. He's not going to ask.
“I will take your dishes when you finish, Master Timothy, and you may go about your afternoon then,” Mr. Pennyworth chimes in (can he read minds?).
Tim nods, because even another thank you feels like it would be awkward. He speeds through the rest of his soup, so unbelievably ready to go hide under the blankets of his new bed for as long as possible.
Mr. Pennyworth doesn't comment on Tim's haste, nor does he say anything to stop Tim when he leaves the room. There's a half-second consideration on Tim's part where he thinks about exploring the manor, but he's honestly done with everything right now.
Jason is…somewhere. Not anywhere Tim can see when he scrambles upstairs into his room. His stuff is untouched where he dropped it and he ignores the idea of unpacking in favor of climbing onto the bed and hiding under the blankets. They're heavier than he expects, falling around him in an even weight and closing off the outside world like a cave.
Man. Not even the promise of the Batcave could get Tim out of this one, not right now.
He really doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but it doesn’t seem like things are going to be very predictable from now on, so he’d probably better get used to it.