Chapter Text
A bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck, soaking into the back of his shirt. Tim’s chest was heaving, tight with exertion from the rigorous training. His knuckles ached but it was nothing he wasn’t used to feeling every day for seven years.
Seven years ago, Tim was nine years old, skinny and frail with large doe eyes, used to peer at his mother. Sometimes it was hard to ever imagine doing something so horrible to that boy. Of course, that wasn’t the case according to his parents. They looked past the watery eyes and saw a weapon–a tool. They had no issue selling him to an organization specialized in creating child assassins.
They would never see that little boy again and neither would Tim.
A hand clasped his shoulder and Tim had to resist the urge to grip it and flip the culprit onto their back, rendering them helpless.
“You have an assignment,” the man gritted out. Tim had no idea what his name was. After all, Tim hardly had a name himself . He was referred to as Number Three.
Tim stalked behind the man, following his lead with silent footsteps. Each move was made with meticulous precision. As they grew near a door, hidden nausea built at the bottom of his stomach. They were headed toward the boss's office. Tim was either in deep shit or about to receive the mission of a lifetime.
The man halted outside of the door without motioning for Tim to do anything. He entered through the door without instruction, satisfied that no one stopped him. As soon as he was in the boss’s eyesight, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Number Three, sit down,” Boss said.
Tim suppressed a disgusted sneer that was bound to show on his face at being referred to as a number. Boss didn’t have a name either and definitely not a number. The reason for his name being secret was for safety. The child assassins didn’t have a name because they were seen as objects.
Tim sat, making sure his back was perfectly straight with proper posture, not only had he learned this skill far before assassin school, but it also made him look bigger. He kept his mouth clamped shut, mostly because he would be punished if he spoke, though he intended to keep his clenched teeth hidden as well.
“You have a very important assignment that I hand-picked you for. Your technology expertise and overall pathetic appearance will serve you well.”
Wow, way to lay it on thick , Tim thought. He didn’t think he looked that pathetic. His muscles were actually beginning to become well-defined–
“You are to kill Bruce Wayne–” Tim’s heart stuttered “–he is becoming more of a hassle than we calculated and will be better off dead.”
Tim’s stone mask facade carefully stayed put. “Yes, sir.”
He was dismissed and sent to his quarters to prepare. Just as he shut his door, his face crumbled. Tim hated rich people just as much as the next guy, especially considering who his parents were, but Bruce Wayne was the only one actually making a difference. His charities were genuinely making a change.
But Tim had an assignment and if he didn’t complete the mission, there would be no Tim left to see the charities in the first place. Bruce Wayne had heirs to his company. One of them could take over. Besides, he valued his own life more than someone else's. That was what he was taught to believe from birth.
Dogs were easy to be trained but hard to regress. Tim was nothing more than a pet with one too many tricks.
He shoved a handful of weapons into his bag, none of them being long-range. This was supposed to be done stealthily and a gun did not fit that standard. Tim liked knives better anyway. A bundle of clothes masked the weapons as he splayed them on top, just in case someone looked in his bag.
When he tried to grab the duffle by the handle, his hand twinged in response. It wasn’t the worst pain he had felt and it certainly didn’t even come close to what he was trained to tolerate, but he elected to wrap up his hands anyway.
Without speaking, he left the compound and arrived on the streets of Gotham. It was dusk, the sun just beginning to set. Shrill police sirens echoed throughout the alleys and Tim didn’t even offer a blink. He stoically moved through the streets like a dance, using the shadows to his advantage. Unfortunately, he was short for his age so he appeared much younger than sixteen. Criminals likely viewed him as an easy target. They would never be so wrong.
Tim always held a knife on his person, safely tucked away, just in case someone did try something.
He walked in the direction of his old house, the one he had lived in with his parents. Tim Drake was miraculously neighbours with Bruce Wayne. It was ironic, really. When he got the assignment, he didn’t even have to check the address.
The walk would be long and Tim didn’t want to risk getting on a bus with cameras. Therefore, he had time to plan and a lot of room for thought. Pondering Tim was never a good time.
Tim’s doe eyes were saucers as he looked at his plate with a sickening feeling. He wasn’t sure what had set it off but he wanted to consider himself lucky. His parents were home. The last time they were home, Tim had been eight. It was very exciting when his dad pretended he didn’t recognize the nine-year-old boy in his home when they got back from a trip. A smile bloomed across his face.
But that had been yesterday and now it was today. Today, something was wrong.
“You better eat, Timothy. You’ll be sorry if you don’t,” his mom chided.
It was odd to say something like that. To Tim, it sounded like a threat but that couldn’t be true.
A knock on the door.
Two men entered their home, both towering over Tim’s tiny frame. His dad instantly began a conversation, speaking quietly so Tim was unable to hear. There were hands shaking, pats on the shoulder, and finally the men’s eyes landed on Tim.
“A little bit small, huh?” one of them said.
“He’s nine, dumbass,” remarked the other.
One of them grabbed his wrist tight enough to bruise.
“Mom?” Tim said, voice trembling. Both of his parents stayed silent.
If Tim had known that would be his last dinner at home, he would have cleaned his plate. Instead, his plate had remained full.
Tim was more than halfway to Bruce Wayne’s manor and he had yet to think of a plan. He usually prided himself on his ability to come up with solutions but perhaps it was the stress of it all. This was Tim’s first big mission and it was solo.
He thought about Bruce Wayne’s profile. He was a charitable man, not only because of his many charities but also his tendency to adopt children in need. The idea sounded bizarre to him. His parents had sold him to a horrible place, never to see him again yet Bruce Wayne wanted to gain children even despite them not being flesh and blood.
The ways of rich people would always be a mystery to Tim.
However, he could certainly use that factor to his advantage. It would be risky, much more than if he just snuck into the manor and killed him, but it would also be easier. Aimlessly roaming around the manor would be futile as opposed to knowing where everything was. For Tim, the thought of eating a normal meal in a manor sounded like a vacation. Bruce wouldn’t suspect anything. He was rich but also incredibly stupid.
As Tim approached his parent’s house, he lost his next breath. It was just as he remembered it. The wall colours were the same and practically lured him in. Tim had to scuff his feet on the ground, digging them into the gravel to stop himself from walking further. He was not going to see his parents. He was going to kill Bruce Wayne.
Tim pivoted, now back on track.
To make sure he reached maximum pity, he supposed it would be better to become injured. That way he could sell his helpless child piece perfectly. Tim crouched from just down the street of the manor. He rummaged through his duffle bag, having to reach past the excessive amount of clothes before he found a knife.
Mulling over which area to stab, he twirled the knife in his fingers. Tim concluded that the thigh would be the best. They would think him immobile and let him rest in a guest room, probably close to everyone else so they could keep an eye on him. That way Tim could easily access Bruce Wayne’s bedroom to make for an effortless kill.
Tim clenched his teeth as he brought the knife to his thigh. He didn’t want to hurt himself so drastically that they took him to the hospital. That would be nothing but a waste of time.
The blade touched his pants, creasing the fabric. Tim shoved down harder, finally feeling it prick his skin. He dragged across his thigh, ripping his pants as they became swelled with blood. It seeped through the fabric, colouring the entire front of his leg. Once he was satisfied, Tim stopped and wiped the knife off on the grass. He shoved it back into his bag and left the duffle behind a bush.
He limped up to the manor, partly because it actually did hurt quite a bit, and partly because he wasn’t sure how many hidden cameras there were. Like a mantra, Tim repeated the consoling thought that he was trained for this to squash his nerves. For seven years, Number Three had been preparing to become a weapon. Today he would succeed.
The driveway was unnecessarily long and Tim had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. He did eventually make it to the front door and reached up to ring the doorbell. There was silence, a sound of footsteps, and then the door swung open. It was Bruce Wayne’s butler.
“Sorry to bother you,” Tim began, “I was just wondering if you had a bandage I could use to wrap my cut?”
The butler seemed to notice the excessive amount of blood soaked through his pant leg. “Oh, my. I think it would be better if I could have a look at it. That seems quite serious.”
“Really, it’s no problem. I just need a bandage,” Tim insisted.
“Nonsense,” the butler chided. “Come inside and have a seat, I’ll get you something to drink while we take care of that cut.”
Tim obliged, limping into the manor and smirking at his successful plan. He analyzed the surroundings, taking note of every entrance and exit. The butler led him to something akin to a living room and disappeared before quickly hurrying back with a glass of water from what Tim guessed was the kitchen. He took the glass gratefully and chugged.
“My name is Alfred, what’s yours?”
Tim swallowed the water, having to pause for a moment to hide the urge to choke. The question wasn’t supposed to startle him as much as it should have. Only, it was the first time someone had asked for his name instead of calling him Number Three in seven years.
“Tim,” he answered, shakily setting the empty glass down.
“Tim,” Alfred repeated. “Let's have a look at that wound, shall we?”
Tim shuffled out of his pants, making sure to dramatically wince when the fabric dragged over the pierced skin. Alfred tentatively poked at the cut, effortlessly gentle. Tim would be lying if he said he didn’t feel any comfort from it.
As the butler cleaned the blood, he began to speak. “Not that I’m upset that you came here for help but this manor is quite far from many places. What were you doing out here in the first place?”
“I was–” Tim stuttered with faux anxiety, “I was squatting at the house beside this one.”
Alfred raised a brow and Tim bit his lip, trying to look as helpless as possible. “It was only going to be for a night or two, I swear! It’s just–the last few nights were cold and I had nowhere else to go. That house is practically always empty and I just needed somewhere to stay for a little bit!”
Alfred placed a comforting hand on his knee. “How did you get injured?”
Tim fiddled with his hands, trying to sell his nervous body language. “I thought I heard someone come in the house so I left through a window. It couldn’t open all the way so I had to inch through and my thigh caught on the edge of the frame. I don’t know why it was so sharp, but I just tried to leave as fast as I could.”
A pregnant silence passed and Tim sighed, weakly mumbling. “Please don’t call the cops.”
Alfred had now finished getting rid of the excess blood and started wrapping his thigh. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” the butler confirmed.
Tim’s plan was going smoothly, much better than he had predicted. The squatting story was bullshit he just came up with on the spot. Tim was trained and that included lying.
“Thank you.” Tim sighed as his injury was cared for.
He heard the floorboards creak from behind him and had to suppress the urge to reach for his hidden knife at the unknown threat. The steps were heavy, certainly not belonging to a child.
“Alfred? Who is this?” A deep voice grumbled.
His victim was here.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred greeted. “Tim here seems to have gotten injured and asked for a bandage.”
Bruce Wayne sat down on a lounge chair across from Tim. “Did you get ahold of his parents?”
Tim took the chance to bring it home.
“My parents–they’re not…they left.” He flitted his eyes to the ground as if he was grieving or something akin to the emotion.
Bruce Wayne didn’t say anything and neither did Alfred. They both had a silent conversation with their eyes and Bruce seemed to frown at the result.
“Who’s looking after you?” Bruce asked.
“I’m on my own, sir.”
If it was even possible, Bruce Wayne looked increasingly distraught. Bingo.
“Do you need somewhere to stay?”
Tim hid his smirk. “I wouldn’t want to impose…”
“We would be happy to lend you a guest room,” Alfred offered, seemingly already getting up to get one prepared.
“Are we opening the manor for every stray or did this one sneak in, Father?” A high voice drawled.
Tim glanced over to see the culprit, shaken at the fact that he couldn’t hear the footsteps. He also elected to ignore the very rude comment.
“Be nice, Damian. Tim is just going to stay the night,” Bruce chided.
“Even someone as idiotic as Grayson would know that is not true,” Damian snarled, rolling his eyes.
It seemed someone as lowly as Tim was not permitted to be granted the brat’s graces judging by his quick departure.
Bruce Wayne turned back to him, a fresh apology on his lips. “He’s still adapting.”
Tim didn’t quite know what that entailed. Adapting hinted that Damian was some sort of animal not used to the climate. If push came to shove, Tim wouldn’t mind killing Damian as well.
He was eventually led up to the room he was going to stay in by the butler, Alfred. Tim settled under the covers as Alfred had insisted and was delivered soup. The treatment was so wonderful, that Tim felt somewhat disappointed at the thought of having to kill Bruce Wayne tonight and go back to all-day training at the organization.
Then again, he would take training over death and if he didn’t complete his mission, that was exactly what he was going to get.
Night came quickly, mostly because half of Tim’s time was occupied by people constantly checking in. Even Damian visited once, soullessly glaring at him.
He patted himself, double-checking that he still had his knife. Once the noise in the manor subsided, Tim tested the floorboards, checking which ones creaked the most, and reminded himself to avoid them. An hour later, he deduced Bruce Wayne would most likely be asleep.
Tim cracked open his door just enough to peek out. The hallway was dim, dark enough to provide good cover. His thigh twinged but he stubbornly ignored it. The incessant care he had received was already making him weak.
He balanced his weight, making sure his steps were silent. It was so quiet, the air so still, that he could hear his breath hitch every time the floor made a slight noise.
When he arrived at the master bedroom, he slipped his knife into his hand, prepared to take a life. Just as he placed a hand on the doorknob, he heard a voice. At first, he froze, terrified that it had been someone spotting him but instead, it came from inside the room, undoubtedly Bruce Wayne’s voice. It seemed as though he was talking to someone on the phone.
“Something’s not right,” Bruce said, sounding worried.
Tim’s chest stuttered, aptly convulsing at the sentence. Something was wrong, indeed.
“Alfred said he had been squatting at the Drake’s home.”
Bruce was talking about him.
“It was odd. Something about his body language reminded me of Damian. His eyes looked at exits when he felt threatened, just like Damian does.”
A pause.
“Dick, I’m certain. This boy has been through something far more serious than he told us. His hands were wrapped. Well. ”
Tim had to act now. Bruce was less stupid than he had thought and now he was suspecting something, even talking on the phone to his eldest about it. If he didn’t want to be caught, he had to risk taking out Bruce Wayne while he was on the phone.
Just as his hand clamped down on the handle, Bruce spoke.
“I don’t think he’s had someone looking out for him in a long time.”
Tim froze because that was unequivocally true–
“Now it’s my job.”
The words cut him deeper than ever before. This was–Tim wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t supposed to feel regret. Tim didn’t plan for someone to pick him apart so thoroughly and then take the responsibility of caring about him.
For the first time in seven years, Tim couldn’t complete his mission.
He sheathed his knife, silently making his way back to bed and slipping under the covers. His heart ached just the same as it had when he saw his parents for the last time.