Chapter Text
Alex hadn't intended for things to get this out of hand. Really, he'd just needed a place to crash and he'd stupidly assumed that the Drake Manor would be empty.
He'd stumbled out of the Gotham Airport in a half-asleep daze. He'd spent the last few days switching flights at random, hoping to throw MI6 off of his trail. He'd switched passports each flight too, along with the occasional change in appearance done during layovers in the airport toilets.
He'd caught a train to the end of the line and started walking. He'd passed a mansion that had an insane amount of security. He'd spotted several cleverly hidden cameras and a dozen or so interesting looking contraptions that he was fairly certain violated some local ordinance or another. He'd also seen a dangerous looking dog prowling the edge of the fence like he had been trained to do so. Alex had decided to avoid that house.
The next place he'd come across was a far less up-to-date mansion. There was little to no security, only a few cameras. None of them looked like they were even on. There was a motion-sensor, but Alex could see from his angle that it wasn't even plugged in, like the owners had just assumed that no one would try to break in. Alex wasn't sure why the hell anyone would make that assumption while living in Gotham, but he wasn’t about to complain. The gate that would admit any cars was coated in a heavy layer of dust.
Now, normally Alex would do everything possible to keep any average person from getting involved with the insanity that had become his life. But he was ridiculously hungry, the last six flights had only been three hours at most, and the meager savings that he did have had been spent trying to lose the damned British government by leading them on a six day wild goose chase across the globe before dropping out of his layovers at the first airport without reliable cameras.
So before he'd actually had time to think or talk himself out of it, he was jumping the fence and making his way up the driveway. He'd forgone the door, having seen enough of the overly complicated lock that he didn't want to bother with trying to pick it. He'd made his way around the edge of the house instead, his boots squelched uncomfortably in the mud and he winced at the sound each step made. The thick brown stone of the late 1800s mansion was freezing to the touch and it brought an unwelcome image of a mausoleum to his mind.
There was a wide bay window that looked out into the slightly overgrown lawn. He approached it carefully, examining the lock critically before he dug his wallet out of his pocket and slid his library card out of it. He stooped to grab a fist sized rock as the idea formed in his brain.
He planted the card into the slit between the window pane and the casement and then smacked it with the rock firmly. With a satisfying thunk, the card slid halfway into the gap and appeared on the other side of the glass. Alex gripped it firmly with his thumb and forefinger before he shoved upwards and it knocked the latch out of place and the window swung open. Alex grinned, gripping both sides of the window frame and hauling himself inside.
He dropped onto polished floorboards inside the house and snapped the window shut behind him, cutting out the chilly breeze. He turned to examine his surroundings, he was in a dark dining nook that looked into a kitchen with early 1900s counter work. “Some security…” he murmured, afraid to speak too loudly and disturb the silence in the house.
…
Timothy Drake was frozen behind the kitchen counter. He'd ducked behind it when he'd heard the sound of the window unlatching. His heart pounded furiously in his chest. The intruder hauled himself in through the bay window, murmured something Tim couldn't hear and dropped his bag with a dull thump. Then the stranger walked forward, like he owned the damn place, and flicked on the light. Tim blinked as the sudden brightness burned his eyes. So what the only light he'd seen in the last six hours was the blue light of his laptop screen. It was Winter-Break. His intruders footsteps moved around the corner of the counter and Tim tensed as he glanced around frantically for something, anything, to defend himself with. As the intruder came around the corner, carefully examining his surroundings, Tim shot up and grabbed the closest item, which he was horrendously ashamed to admit was one of the wooden spoons that he'd left on the counter two nights ago after using it to make dinner. It still had remnants of cheese sauce on the edges. He brandished it in front of him, as if he could force the- teenager.
The intruder was a teenager. Ruffled wet clothes hung off of a frame that looked a little too skinny, like he'd skipped a few too many meals recently. His blonde hair was sticking up in awkward angles that exaggerated his expression of surprise. His hands had snapped up into a defensive position that was rapidly receding into a placating one. His eyes were wide, and had dark circles under them that rivaled Tim's at his worst. They blinked at each other wordlessly, and Tim took a second to consider how he would look. He probably seemed half-manic, with his own hair in a terrible bedhead he hadn't bothered to brush out since Mrs. Mac had gone on vacation two weeks ago. He was wearing a dirty Robin T-shirt and sweatpants that had bunched up around one calf. His hands were shaking where they held an improvised weapon that was dripping two day old Mac and Cheese onto his kitchen floor.
Tim spoke first, voice shaking, “Wh- Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
The intruder shrank into himself awkwardly. “I didn't think there was anyone here… sorry…”
Tim cocked his head at the simply atrocious faux Gothamite accent coming from the boy's mouth.
He wrinkled his nose, and lowered the spoon so it was pointing at the intruder's chest. “What's wrong with your voice?”
The other boy seemed offended, “There's nothing wrong with my voice.”
Tim raised an eyebrow at the edges of an accent that crept through his voice in his response.
The older boy, although really probably only by a year or two, slumped slightly before he sighed and said in a London accent, “I'm sorry, it's been a very long few days. I should- well- I'm sorry for- I'm sorry, I thought-” He shrugged helplessly, “I haven't got a clue what I was thinking…”
Tim cautiously lowered the spoon, “uh… okay? So what are you doing here?”
A flush rushed over the intruder's face. “Um… looking for food?”
Despite it all, Tim laughed. “Wrong house then.” He shrugged helplessly, “I'm down to stale dog kibble. Which is weird cause it's been there my whole life and we've never owned a dog…”
The intruder frowned. “Weird…” he agreed, hands beginning to fall from where they'd been held above his shoulders. “I'm sorry for scaring you. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise.”
Tim frowned, “You do know that's exactly what people who are going to hurt you say, right?”
“Huh,” the intruder admitted, “generally in my experience it's more along the lines of ‘screw you, you wanker! I'm gonna beat the shit outta you!’ But… that could be a skewed sample…”
Tim snorted. “Okay, fair point.” And then, because he was a stupid fucking idiot with half a can of silly string and a touch starved baby seal for a brain, he dropped his guard completely and tossed the spoon into the sink. “I'm Tim Drake.”
He stepped forward and held out a hand politely. The stranger, bemused and a little concerned, slowly reached forward to take it.
“Alex.”
Tim waited.
Alex met his stare unflinchingly.
“So… no last name?”
“...”
“Okay… that's not creepy at all.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “And breaking into your house in the middle of the night wasn't?”
Tim chuckled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Nah. That's how Gothamites show affection.”
Alex got a weird look on his face. It was somewhere between horrified and confused. “I genuinely can't tell if you're being serious. You're joking….right?”
Tim shrugged. “Only a little. Want to order pizza?”
The teen probably would have been less surprised if Tim suggested they fly to the moon. “you're offering to buy me food?”
“Yeah.”
“You're a strange bloke, Tim Drake.”
“Right back at you Alex The Nameless.”
Alex gave him a considering look. His eyes seemed to stare directly into his soul and Tim squirmed underneath the scrutiny. Eventually, Alex nodded like he'd found something satisfactory. “Rider. Alex Rider.”
“Nice to meet you.” Tim said, turning to look for his phone, “do you like veggie pizza?”
And then one thing led to another and Tim had decided to keep his new friend. Alex had decided that someone needed to watch out for the fucking idiot that was Timothy Drake.