Chapter Text
Tim stared down at his cup, acutely aware no matter how hard he tried the alcohol inside would never go completely still.
His hand was constantly adjusting, accommodating. And with every movement another wave of ripples would cross the surface, bouncing against the walls before settling enough and beginning the cycle again.
A woman caught his gaze, her cheeks already far too flushed for the fact the gala had only just begun. Miss Astor, a stout brunette in a bright and all too short pink gown, half stumbling as she walked.
Tim smiled and waved, holding his cup in the air as a polite greeting.
Miss Astor lifted her glass in turn, before making a beeline for Mister Vandike, old money oil tycoon and a well known cheater in the right circles.
Even from this distance, the tan line of her wedding ring was still visible. Tragic, if she wasn't already an impressive four time widow at fifty eight. Well less so when all her husbands were already waist deep in the grave. They deserved each other.
Timothy sipped the cup and did his best not to wince at the bitter taste. He never could get accustomed, but taste didn't matter much once he got buzzed enough not to care.
His Bruce would be furious at Tim, getting drunk at a party, at only seventeen. But that wasn't his Bruce anymore.
Well- it was no one's fault but his own.
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It had been years since the Time stream incident, years since he considered the Waynes family.
Red Robin ended up on a mission in Siberia while following a lead connected to a weapons deal within Gotham. What should have been a simple mission blew up far out of his control.
Safe houses compromised, Supplies destroyed, Contacts turned sour, and the cherry on top? His bo staff snapping in half after he nearly got run over by a truck.
And that had been his backup staff.
There was no back up, weapon or comrades.
Red Robin flew solo- everyone knew that.
So did the silhouette who held a gun at almost point blank range aimed directly for his heart. His memories were.. Fuzzy at best, non-existent at worst.
But he remembers the gun. You don't grow up in Gotham and not know guns. But this one? It was nothing like he’d ever seen.
Unfortunately hard to analyze as he felt the searing energy rip straight through his chest and send him crumbling to the snowbank below.
He laid and watched as the figure, fled into the distance, the snow consuming them.
Tim was dying, he knew that. They say the whole “life flashes before your eyes” but at that moment he didn't get a whole movie montage.
He just felt the weight of so many years finally come down to this.
Not in a lucky assassination, or a battle of wills against an arch enemy, not a blaze of glory, sacrificing himself in the end for those he loved.
No, Tim was alone.
Dying because he was too unprepared, and his tendency to push everyone away finally bit him in the ass.
Alone in the start and alone in the end…
What a fucking joke.
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You’d think dying with a gaping hole in one's chest would be faster than this.
But even as minutes ticked by his mind was painfully aware of every millisecond passed.
His limbs were numb, blood loss probably, or maybe that was the fact he was bleeding out in a giant pile of snow.
Either way- the pain had slowly ebbed away, but things only got fuzzier.
It would be soon then.
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God- As selfish as it was? Tim wished, in that moment, his family was still whole.
Even if they were too late, they still would have come.
How long until they realized he was gone?
Or would they assume he finally did them all a favor and went dark for good.
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Would he get a grave?
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What would it even say?
Here lies Timothy Jackson Drake,
Friend (he wasn't a great one),
Brother (only by law),
and Son (not anymore, and not for a long time).
At least if he did get a funeral, he wished that, in his death, their fucked up family would all be together again.
Hell…maybe it would be the catalyst of everyone else making amends. But that was a bit too presumptuous of his place.
Fuck.. If that were the case? It would be worth it.
For a moment, he felt something...
A flash of light, a melodic sound- a voice? And the feeling of something settling in his chest.
But Tim felt his mind receding. And before he could register anything else, he was engulfed in darkness.
Thus marked the uneventful end of Tim Drake.
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Or well…It should have been.
But life had a tendency of never giving him an easy way out, apparently his death was no different.
Tim hadn't expected to wake up. Less so without a smidge of pain, he couldn't remember the last time that had happened. He was warm too, tucked tightly into layers of soft blankets.
Was this heaven? Did he really deserve that?
A warm bed and painless existence- guess he'd done something right. His gaze focused just ahead, and he froze.
There were.. plastic stars plastered on the ceiling. The same stars he’d begged his mom to get despite what it would do to their home value hung just above his head.
Tim was in his bedroom. His old bedroom. The only thought running through his mind? One simple word.
Fuck.
It didn't take too long to accept his new reality.
No he wasn't in an alternate dimension, nor did he switch spots with another Tim Drake, nor was this some weird reincarnation.
Working theory? He'd slipped back in time, his time, possibly triggered by whatever he'd been shot with.
Bart had ranted about “time slips” more than once and it seemed Tim was just a lucky.
Some luck it felt like, forced to do number trains while dealing with the existential crisis of knowing what was to come. The horrors his family had yet to experience.
But he couldn't interfere.
Right?
It- started small. Tim stopped spending all his nights wallowing. Instead he scoured every inch of Crime alley, searching.
It didn't take long, the few times Jason had opened up about his past before B, were enough for Tim to track him down.
Jason had skimmed over a lot of details of his living, and it was enough that Tim had to go hide in a fire escape to sob his eyes out before he was ready to reassess the situation.
Stupid kid brain, he may have his memories- but it seemed his hormones and his pain tolerance had reset. Which he learned the hard way.
Besides, was it stealing if it already belonged to his family? And if he could slip a whole batmobile in a batarang budget for someone as paranoid as batman (heh- try saying that ten times fast). He could slip the cost of some new clothes and comforters to his parents account.
Tim began leaving packages, random necessities. Or food, hiding random treats in cabinets and drawers.
It wasn't much- but Tim was still paranoid about messing with too much just in case his theory was wrong.
He couldn't save him from everything- but he couldn't just leave his brother suffering for so long.
Despite it all… Jason, just a few inches taller and a few less scars. He still took the tires- he joined the family.
And Tim? Watched from afar.
Some days were hard, days where his parents goodbye were a bit too bitter, knowing their promises of a quick return were empty.
And that the family he’d grown to love was just next door. But they were better off without him and he knew it would be game over if any of them ever found out about him.
The temptation was just.. Too much. So he took some inspiration from dear old Dad and curated his own version of “Brucie Wayne.”
But instead of a well-meaning but ditzy “Prince of Gotham” Tim became a menace.
He embraced every griping stereotype that Jason and other Gotham natives had ever believed.
Taking inspiration from people like Miss Astor, people that Tim would prefer chopping his arm off then spend more than a few hours with.
“Timothy Drake” was loud, he was snobby, he never hesitated to complain about anything and every minor convenience was a threat to sue.
“Timothy Drake” only wore the best, only talked to those he deemed ‘worthy company’ and sneered at the rest.
“Timothy Drake” gained a reputation, no one bothered as much with the “Street rat” Mr.Wayne had taken in when they had the bratty demon from hell next door.
It was perfect.
But he was his own worst enemy. He tried, but the more he watched his city suffer, the harder it was to keep away from the call he knew.
Tim stayed in the shadows at first, leaving tips on the desk of the GCPD and even to Batman himself, but he resisted picking up a mask. He couldn't justify the risk.
Red Robin was dead- and he needed to stay that way.
Even without a mask, he had another name. A name given, for the unknown informant who seemed to know all and yet seek nothing in return, alluding even the bat.
They dubbed him after the little red paperclips he put on every file he put into place, and small bird doodles he'd forgotten to erase.
At least they were keeping with the theme of birds in Gotham. Never did he claim the name- at least not then.
Instead he continued Pushing the bounds of what he could get away with, though he did let some dead dogs lie so to speak.
He didn't interfere with Dick and B’s whole blow up, they would sort it out themselves.
Besides, the world deserved Nightwing and Dick deserved the freedom he got away from Gotham.
The call grew stronger after Babs' attack, he’d only lessened and delayed it, but a failure was still that.
Seeing her walking cane at public events only made that pit in his chest grow. Batgirl still “died” because he was too weak to step in himself.
Even then, Tim was still set on staying away.
But.. with Dick and Bruce still at eachothers throats, Gordon and Alfred already overwhelmed with it all, and Jason seeming to outgrow Bruce's iron grip everyday?
He couldn't stand the idea of Babs being so alone in that damned tower.
So, in a moment of weakness, he left a gift. And a note, from Cardinal. A bird of devotion, a homage and reminder of his mission.
It served as a sliver of connection to the family he once had. It was- euphoric.
Despite his failure- despite the suits and the tech he had stashed away, since too long a glance was already too much. Tim managed to stay strong in his refusal.
Of course, that all changed when April came around.
Tim would be damned if he allowed Jason the worst fate, he would not fail again. Even if it meant there was no longer a need for a “replacement." A need for Tim.
He pulled together a profile on Sheila along with hundreds of other Joker confirmed associates worldwide, save the trouble in the future. It was left on the commissioners desk the same way it always had.
Only now it was signed, in bright red ink-
Cardinal.
To no one's surprise, Batman had combed through every single name- he found Sheila among them. It should have been over then.
But Jason- as lovingly stubborn as he was, wasn't satisfied with a simple no.Something went wrong, horribly wrong.
Bad enough that despite his every reservation, despite every instinct screaming at him how bad an idea it was.
Cardinal was given a face.
In the end- Robin still died.
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But Jason Todd lived.
Tim never found out everything that happened. Fleeing before the smoke could settle and questions could be asked.
The public story was a tragedy of a broken boy, recovered by the Bat and returned to father. The family granted privacy to recover after the international ordeal.
And about a year later?
Bluejay appeared, a blonde Robin trailing just behind.
Cardinal continued to work behind the scenes, but from the moment he gave in, Tim knew he'd given in to it all.
Slowly spreading their wings until they gained a reputation of their own in the streets. In Gotham they became a critical source of almost omnipotent level information to the Bats.
People were arrested, disasters prevented, and organizations destroyed long before they could come to fruition.
The only group he left alone was the league not wanting to touch that mes if he could help it.
And he didn't want to make things any more dangerous for Damian. Though he did keep tabs, same with Lady Shiva and David Cane.
It was shaky work, choosing what events to allow and which ones to stop.
But he couldn't beat Luthor to death when Connor hadn't been “born” yet. And let the light develop just enough Bart appeared, then he could stamp it out.
By some miracle, it worked.
The Thomases were saved, and Duke seemed to be doing well. Though Tim had left him be, he never really knew him anyways.
Steph and Cass had joined the family through hundreds of carefully pulled strings and circumstances.
Batgirl and Spoiler made their own legacies. With Steph returned to her original moniker, first Robin, now Batgirl. Instead handing over yet another legacy title to a new sibling,
That last piece was arguably the most challenging of them all. But with all other safe options expended, he bit the bullet and reached out to Talia.
She had been, understandably, uncooperative.
“Look- I'm not asking you to trust me, I'm asking you to trust your instincts”
“And what, pray tell, are my instincts meant to be telling me?" Talia practically purred over the phone.
“Ra’s hunger for power is insatiable. He will see Damian as he sees you, an asset to his grand mission. And if Damian fails-”
“-He will not fail.” Talia hissed with so much venom Tim flinched back.
He had to pull away from the voice modifier for a breath, long enough to recenter himself. Weakness to an Al Ghul was far from worthy of trust, and that's just what he needed.
“By your standards- no. But he is as much a Bat as he is you, and the strength of a black knight is a weakness to a ruthless assassin-”
Tim glanced at the water over the edge of the yacht he planned to chunk the phone over soon enough. Anyone who knew Damians true parentage was a threat, but it was a card he needed to show.
“-Now I ask again, will you be able to protect him against your father?"
She hung up.
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Damian appeared at the manor by the time Timothy returned from his “cruise.”
That was several years ago now.
Batman, Nightwing, Oracle, Bluejay, Batgirl, Spoiler, and Robin. All the Bats had their place. And His shoe box of photos had grown into an entire secret room.
Was it creepy? Yes.
But was it also the best he got to see his family? Also yes.
That and he didn't have to worry about being discovered.
By the time Tim was seventeen yet again, he.. hadn't been able to save his parents. Not escaping the fate of the “youngest CEO” when he took over Drake Industries.
Timothy Drake as a spoiled brat, or a petulant child to pity. Who was only the face of the company for the tabloids and the namesake.
They assumed the charity that sometimes topped even the Waynes was the thankless work of his “lackeys."
Only two people were “in the know” about Tim.
Leslie Tompkins. She didn't know about his past, just that he wasn't the same “spoiled brat” the tabloids portrayed. He made sure of that.
It did help with advancing medical care in Gotham through her clinic, jointly-funded by Wayne Industries, of course. But she also gave advice on measures that the WE overlooked and D.I. could help in.
And Lucius Fox. Tim had swiped him from the W.E. He'd tried the same with Tam, but in this timeline, she moved to Europe in college instead. It was probably better that way.
But if he wanted to maintain Timothy Drake while still having Drake Industries function, he needed at least one other competent person. It was… he was really appreciated.
Though at this point, he was confident Lucius just thought he was fucking weird and that his whole asshole persona was a “defense mechanism” from his “childhood trauma” which was rude.
But he was half the reason Tim stayed sane, so it was worth it.
The downside of having a good relationship with his right-hand man was the fact he couldn't play the “hungover after a wild rich kid rager on someone’s yacht” card everytime he wanted to skip an event.
Even worse, this was an event hosted by the Waynes. Which, despite hating his guts, had to invite him out of courtesy after the latest program collaboration that introduced free vital medications to Crime Alley and other low-income areas of Gotham.
Lucius had given him a glare that rivaled Alfred when he tried making his case for bailing. Unfortunately, knowing Tim wasn't nearly as reckless as Timothy worked against him at times.
Hell- one of the only bonuses of Timothy was that Tim wasn’t new to Galas in general.
Usually, it was acceptable for younger kids not to attend, though Tim was, of course, always an exception for his parents.
But the fact it was hosted at Wayne Manor meant that Damians's presence was not only expected, but it was also practically required to avoid any baseless rumors from flaunting around.
Tim glanced down at his cup, which was now disappointingly empty. He already felt the wisps of a pleasant buzz, but he didn't want to deal with being seen walking around with an empty glass.
Weaving past the crowd, he had a few polite smiles and, of course, some well-timed snobby comments and sneers.
Tim ignored the sensation of an especially glaring pair of eyes as he reached one of the servers. Snapping his fingers, making them rush forward to swap his cup with a now full one.
Casually, he scanned the hall and met the eyes. None other than Jason Todd who sneered.
Timothy would have sneered back, but Tim couldn't bring himself to do it.
One thing Tim could never bring himself to do was flunk classes. Sure he was disrespectful and might skip here and there.
But he never failed. So he happened to still be kicked a few grades ahead in Gotham Academy.
In Jason's grade.
Tim had gotten careless then, but he knew to never make the same mistake again, and now he paid the price.
Tim rolled his shoulders back. Timothy maintained Jason's eyeline, waving exaggeratedly as he waltzed over to the Wayne boys, a sideways smile on his face.
“Ah, if it isn't the Waynes, might I say lovely party so far?” Tim projected his voice, letting his Bristol accent full force to the point it bordered on ear grating.
Jason looked like he wanted to deck Tim for existing, and Damian looked similarly murderous.
Dick, however, ever the actor, had just a moment where his eyes darkened- imperceivable to anyone, not a bat, of course. Then he switched to a blinding smile.
“Timothy Drake, glad to see you are enjoying yourself- Though I swore you’re not of legal age just yet” Dick smiled, gesturing to Tim’s now half-empty champagne glass.
Timothy only smirked and held it up slightly. “Oh, I'm not- but it would be rude to deny an esteemed guest good booze, wouldn't it, Officer Grayson?"
He took another obnoxious long sip while maintaining eye contact.
Dicks eyebrow twitched "It's actually Firefighter now, I only had the honor of serving on the force for a few months before I quit"
"Quit" more like he almost got killed by his fellow officers after exposing a giant corruption scheme. Not that "Timothy" knew that though. But still, he didn't take that bait.
Tim needed some sort of scene. Damian didn't really know him yet; they made sure to keep Timothy far away from baby Wayne.
The last thing he needed was the brat getting curious. That and a scene would mean a damm good excuse to bail.
“Now then- glad to hear that the W.E. has matched Drake Industries in donations for the um… what was it again?" Tim said, looking to the side.
“Right!" He snapped his fingers. “Medical stuff for people who can't afford it, such a noble cause, don't you agree?"
Dicks smile was now very much strained and Jason tensed even more, but not enough yet.
“Say- you used to live among the everyday folk downtown, didn't you, Jason?" Tim smiled, though the words felt like razor blades up his throat.
“I did.” Jason spat, his hands slowly curling into fists at his sides.
Tim hummed, taking another long lingering sip. Just enough, it was bordering on disrespect. Then again, Timothy would never respect Jason, so it worked.
“Then I imagine you’re especially grateful for the noble sacrifice to your kind of people”
In that instance he would have sworn Jason's eyes flashed green, and yet he knew better. They stayed their natural baby blue but were so filled with familiar rage it hardly made a difference.
“Though you likely had a big part in convincing your father- so for that, I must thank you for the opportunity” Tim bowed his head, both in a desperate attempt to break eye contact and as the cherry on top of pissing Jason off.
Timothy always bordered the line of infuriating, but just subtle enough, you couldn't call him out on it. Some tried, and they proceeded to have to keep up with the verbal Gymnastics that would keep even the Riddler spinning.
Most people would be forced to “play nice” and would just find a polite excuse to bail and then complain to the nearest person in earshot. Hell, if Jason did him a favor of being a bit too loud, Tim could probably leave by midnight.
But Jason, ever the unpredictable asshole, seemed to have no qualms about “playing nice." He didn't yell at Tim- but quickly stormed off, muttering under his breath all the way and almost ramming into several socialites.
Dick was quick to follow, apologizing to a few stuffy old crows that continued to glare at Jason as they disappeared from view.
Mission success-
God, he missed real missions; this just sucked.
Tim glanced down at his watch, a Rolex that used to be his dad's. Huh- only 10:30, sooner than expected. He took another sip of the glance and glared at the fact it was already running low.
Well now he could feel a buzz, curse his low tolerance he'd need to slow down to keep pace all night.
“So Drake- you are an associate of my father?" Damian said, his arms now crossed and one of his bat brows raised high.
Tim had to thank years of practice acting for the fact he didn't spit out his drink and jump a foot in the air. Why the fuck was he still here?
“Why yes- and you are the littlest Wayne, the bio child?" Timothy smiled
Damian seemed annoyingly unphased by the little comment and just nodded “Damian Wayne, yes- and I will be taking over father's company, so we will be associates in the future”
“Is that so?" This was new. What angle was Damian going for here? “Then I hope you grow big enough for your britches in time.”
Damian's face screwed up just a bit- fuck, that was Southern slang, dammit, kon. But he could pass it off as being drunk and well-traveled, surely.
“That being said- Father may see you a worthy asset, and while I see the appeal of strong allies- they mean nothing in the face of utter disrespect”
“Whatever do you mean?"
“Don't play coy with me, Drake.” Damian spat in an oh-so-familiar tone, “If you do not cease your venom-filled words towards my brother, I will be forced to make you”
Damian stepped forward, purposefully encroaching on Timothy's personal space with a glare that rivaled Batman himself.
Normal men would cower, Tim had to remember to let a little fear slip through.
“This is your one and only warning, control your tongue or lose it,” Damian said and remained far too close to Timothy for a few seconds too long before pulling away.
“Now I'm off to find better company-” and he left.
Dammit.
Dick was a fucking infection, making him feel proud for the brat being so protective.
But god his Damian would sooner die than call any of them his brothers, let alone stick up for them off-field. He'd come so far- how dare the little shit make him feel proud?
Tim checked his phone, ready to call an Uber, but instead was greeted with a text that made him want to scream.
[Fox man- I swear to god if you bail, I will give you paperwork duty for a month, and i'll stop delaying the meeting with Mister Izbel]
Well fuck-
Tim was far too sober for this.