Chapter Text
Tim Drake was home alone.
And he was fine with it.
No, really. He was.
He had the whole house to himself—the creaky old Drake Manor, with its hollow halls and echoing stairwells, and that one weird painting of a shipwreck that stared at him whenever he walked down the second-floor corridor. But Tim wasn’t scared. He was eight now. That was practically an adult.
That’s why his parents had trusted him, for the first time ever, to stay home alone for more than two weeks.
He got himself ready every morning, packed his own lunch (or picked one of the neatly labeled containers Mrs. Mac left), and caught the bus to school without any help. When he came back in the afternoons, the house would be clean and quiet. The fridge always had food. His homework was usually easy. And best of all: there was no nanny.
He hated nannies.
This was the first time his parents had left him alone this long—almost three weeks . They were in Switzerland or Singapore or one of the S-countries, doing a big investor meet or museum acquisition or gala dinner with gowns and oysters. They said Tim couldn’t come. Said it was too boring for kids. Said he’d have more fun staying home.
And honestly? He kind of had .
The weekends were the best. He’d get up at 11, have Lucky Charms and coffee for breakfast (no one was around to stop him from drinking coffee anymore! yay!), he’d watch YouTube videos about Batman and Robin, he’d fangirl over Robin in the bathroom, then he’d come out and get ready for a whole day of doing whatever he wanted .
At first, he’d spent every free second playing Fortnite . Unlimited screen time! He spent his weekly allowance on V-Bucks and bought every Battle Pass he wanted. He won matches. He built crazy towers. He crushed other players with smug satisfaction.
But then… it got boring.
So he hacked the game.
That took a few tries. And a few account bans. And maybe a temporary IP block. But he figured it out. Tim always figured it out.
And then that got boring too.
So now, on the day his parents were finally coming home, Tim Drake stood barefoot in the massive marble kitchen, squinting down at a weathered cookbook he’d pulled from one of the forgotten cabinets. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and lemon zest, and the spine crackled when he opened it.
It was old. Like, super old. Like—he was pretty sure one of the photos was in black-and-white.
But he liked it.
“Something mom’ll like,” he muttered to himself, thumbing through the pages. “Nothing with coconut. Or… is she still allergic to strawberries?”
He paused. Thought. Shrugged.
Better play it safe.
His fingers settled on a page with a faded picture of a chocolate layer cake. Nothing fancy. Just tall and dark and rich-looking, with curly shavings on top. That seemed right. His mom liked chocolate. And cake. And Tim. Probably.
He wanted something nice waiting when they got back. Something that said “Look, I’m fine without you,” and “Please stay next time,” all at once. And chocolate cake was his safest bet.
He set the book down with great ceremony on the island counter, smoothing the wrinkled paper like he’d seen chefs do on YouTube. Then he read through the list:
Flour. Sugar. Baking soda. Cocoa powder. Eggs. Butter. Milk.
Easy. Totally doable.
He dragged a wooden chair across the kitchen tile so he could reach the higher cabinets, then climbed up and began hunting. Most of the ingredients were already here—Mrs. Mac had good taste. He found flour and sugar and the weirdly clumpy cocoa powder in mismatched tins. He took a sniff of the vanilla extract and almost gagged. Why did it smell like medicine?
Eggs from the fridge. Butter too. Milk that wasn’t expired. ( Score. )
The kitchen slowly turned into a battlefield. There was flour on the counters, on the chair, on Tim . An egg rolled off the counter and exploded on the floor with a wet splat. He froze—then grabbed a roll of paper towels and cleaned it up as best he could.
He followed the instructions mostly exactly. Maybe he forgot to sift the dry ingredients. Maybe he got bored and added extra chocolate chips halfway through. Maybe he spilled a little salt in, but wasn’t sure how much salt was "too much salt," so he just stirred it in and hoped for the best.
The batter looked… okay. Maybe a little lumpy.
Tim dipped a spoon in and tasted it.
“…Not bad,” he declared to no one. Then dipped again. And again. Just to make sure.
Once the cake was in the oven, he set a timer, then flopped onto the kitchen floor, arms sprawled wide, staring up at the ceiling fan. The silence hummed around him. Warm and still.
He imagined what it would be like when they walked in. His dad with his tie loose, laughing too loud, like he always did after drinking wine on the plane. His mom kissing his head, even though she always told him not to eat too much sugar. Maybe they’d be proud. Maybe they’d take a picture of the cake and tell him he didn’t need a nanny ever again.
He liked the idea of that.
He closed his eyes and smiled.
The smell of baking chocolate began to fill the kitchen.
Tim stayed on the kitchen floor for a while, knees tucked to his chest, chin resting on them, eyes glued to the oven door.
Through the little glass window, he could just barely see the cake.
Still goopy.
He let out a sigh, loud and dramatic, then scrambled to his feet to check again. He tugged the oven door open a few inches and immediately got blasted in the face with hot air. He flinched back with a yelp, eyes watering. The heat fogged up the glass and stung his cheeks.
Still not done.
He shut the door, huffed, sat back down. Waited. Counted to sixty. Then did it all over again.
Hot air. Not done. Sit. Sigh. Repeat.
After the fourth check, he gave up and went to the living room.
His iPad was where he left it—charging on the couch, screen smudged with fingerprints and cookie crumbs. He flopped down, legs dangling off the cushion, and opened YouTube. His recommendations were a mess: Fortnite edits, speedrun glitches, cake decorating ASMR, and some weird history channel that kept showing up no matter how many times he tried to clear it.
He clicked a video of someone making a chocolate cake that looked way better than his.
Somewhere between cake number five and “I Tried Baking Blindfolded,” the oven started screaming.
The sharp BEEEP-BEEEP-BEEEP made Tim jump, iPad clattering to the floor. He scrambled up so fast he nearly tripped over his own sock.
“The cake!”
The kitchen was filled with a toasty, too-brown smell that made his stomach twist. He grabbed a dish towel—no, two dish towels—and pulled open the oven. Smoke puffed out. Not a lot , but enough to make his eyes sting.
The cake was dark around the edges. A little sunken in the middle. But he’d done it. It was done .
“Okay,” Tim mumbled to himself. “Okay, just gotta—”
He reached in with both hands, trying to keep the towel steady under the pan. The tray was heavier than he expected. The searing heat punched through the towel like it wasn’t even there, burning into his hand.
“Agh—!”
It felt like grabbing a stove coil—he dropped the tray before he could even think.
It clattered onto the tile with a horrible metal clang , flipping over. The cake broke in half as it hit the floor—one chunk sticking to the tray, the other crumbling across the grout like mud.
Tim stood frozen.
Then he looked down at his hand.
It was red and throbbing. The edge of his palm was already turning pink. His eyes went wide, then watery, and before he could think or decide what to do next—
He started crying.
Big, hiccuping sobs.
He didn’t know what to do first.
The mess on the floor? The ruined cake? His hand hurt . Really hurt. But maybe it’d be worse if the frosting stained the tile or something. Maybe he should clean it up first. But what if it blistered? Should he run it under water? Did they have band-aids for burns? Would it scar? Was he going to die ?
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, sniffling, holding his injured hand to his chest and spinning in uncertain circles, trying to figure out where to even start.
Then the phone rang.
The big house phone. The landline.
The important one.
Tim’s heart skipped. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and ran for it, climbing up onto the stool next to the wall where the phone was mounted. It was already on the third ring, and his parents’ patience was thinner than a hair. If he didn’t pick up soon—
“Hello?” he said, voice small and scratchy. “This is—this is Tim.”
“Timmy, sweetheart.”
His mother’s voice was bright. Crackly, like she was calling from the car on speakerphone. Music and a car engine buzzed faintly in the background.
His heart lifted. Maybe they were calling from the driveway. Maybe they saw the cake from the window? It was realistically impossible, they were home too soon and the kitchen windows didn’t face the driveway, but maybe…?
“Hi, Mom,” he said, sniffling again. “I—”
“Listen, we’re not going to make it home tonight after all. Your father and I got a last-minute invite to a reception in Monaco—you know how these things go. Very important people. We just have to be there.”
Wait, what?
Tim blinked. He opened his mouth. Then closed it.
“We’ll be back soon,” she went on, too quickly. “Tomorrow, maybe the next day. We’ll see. Be a good boy, okay? Eat what Mrs. Mac left and don’t touch the stove again, understood? Love you!”
“Wait—” Tim said, voice cracking. “I—Mom, I—burned my—”
Click.
She was gone.
The dial tone hummed in his ear.
Tim slowly hung up the phone, lower lip trembling.
His hand still hurt.
The cake was still ruined.
And they weren’t coming home.
He slid down off the stool, pressed his back to the wall, and let himself cry for real this time. Big, wet sobs that shook his whole body. He curled up, knees to chest again, like he had earlier. Only now, the kitchen didn’t feel warm and exciting and full of possibilities.
It just felt cold. And empty.
And quiet.
Tim Drake was home alone. And he wasn’t fine with it. Not at all.