Chapter Text
The first time Timothy Drake remembers seeing the future, he was only five years old. He had been playing in the nursery when, out of nowhere, a frightening scene flashed before his eyes. There and gone in the blink of an eye, little Timothy was left blinking confusedly as the image vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
What he saw was their maid, Mrs. Henry, rushing down the main staircase of the manor. She had tripped and fallen down, down, down all the way to the bottom, a sickening snap ringing out as she hit the floor of the entrance hall. As the vision faded away, (for, a vision it was, though the boy would not come to this conclusion until a year or so later) he jumped to his feet, sprinting through the vast halls of the manor while calling urgently for the woman. Surely, she was alright? It was just a scary thought, or a nightmare but when he was awake instead of asleep. It had been so real though, that Tim felt an urgent need to see Mrs. Henry right now, to make sure she was safe and not hurt at the bottom of the cold, hard stairs.
He looked and looked, but couldn't find her. Then it occurred to him: what if it had already happened? What if she was already lying there, so still and cold?
Twisting around, he doubled back to the entrance hall as fast as his short legs allowed. She wasn't there. Ok. This was ok. She was safe, she had to be. Maybe she had just stepped out for a quick break? Or had fallen asleep in the middle of cleaning the sitting room?
Tim released a shaky breath of relief, Mrs. Henry was fine, it was just a nightmare. Or something very close to a nightmare, at least. Despite his assurances to himself, his tummy felt squirmy with anxiety, making him feel like he needed to jump around or run in circles to get it out of his system. As he was considering going outside to do just that, Mrs. Henry appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Master Timothy!” She cried out as she saw him at the base of the staircase. She had heard him screaming for her through the huge house, but the long halls echoed terribly, bouncing the sound around the mansion so that it was nearly impossible to find someone by hearing alone, especially if that someone is a distraught four-year-old running at top speed.
“What in the world is wrong, Master Timothy? Are you alr-”
Time seemed to slow down as Mrs. Henry stepped hastily onto the staircase. On the very first step, the heel of her shoe gave out, knocking her off balance and sending her plummeting down the stairs to the unforgiving marble below.
Tim watched with wide eyes as he saw the same terrible scene play out before his eyes, only this time, when he heard the nauseating snapping noise where the vision had ended, (for a vision it was, though the boy did not know it yet) an agonized shriek rang through the foyer and into the manor, echoing the woman’s anguish for all to hear.
Tim stood frozen, unsure what to do and frightened in the face of such a frightening sight. He didn’t understand what he was seeing and everything was happening so quickly. Mrs. Henry was crying now, and seeing people cry made Tim want to cry too. Straightening up, all thirty-six-and-a-half inches of him, he trotted quickly to her side, tentatively laying a small, chubby hand on her shoulder.
“Are you-” Tim’s voice faltered, unsure what to say in the face of so much pain and fear. He had never seen someone this injured before.
“Are you ok? What…what should I do?” He enquired as he tried valiantly to hold back his own tears while Mrs. Henry continued to shake and cry.
Apparently hearing him through the pain and sobs wracking her body, Mrs. Henry peered hazily up at the child.
“Go-” a short gasp of pain escaped her lips as she shifted her weight. “Go get help, little master. Go find one of the groundskeepers or the cook, find someone and bring them here. Can you do that?” Tim nodded vigorously, wiping at the tears slowly sliding down his rounded cheeks.
“I’ll be right back!” He promised, already jumping to his feet and tearing through the entranceway towards the kitchen. He figured this was his best bet since it was almost lunch-time and Monsieur Laurent would most likely be in the kitchen finishing up preparations for the meal. Even if it was just Timothy eating by himself, he always had at least three courses to each meal, often more at dinner-time.
As he neared the kitchen, Tim heard the booming chords of Tosca blaring from within. Monsieur Laurent liked to listen to opera while he cooked. That explained how he hadn’t heard all the screaming.
Bursting through the double doors into the kitchen, Timothy immediately latched onto the chef’s sleeve and began tugging him in the direction of the foyer and Mrs. Henry, his frantic babbling completely indecipherable in his distraught state. Eventually, Monsieur Laurent had the sense to pull the needle off of the old phonograph so that he could actually hear the tearful pleas dropping out of the child’s mouth.
“What, what, what, child, what?” The chef groused, irritated at the interruption.
“Mrs. Henry! Mrs. Henry, she-she fell, she fell and she’s hurt and she said to get help, please, you need to help her-” By now, the chef had allowed Tim to drag him along towards the scene of the disaster.
“Mon Dieu,” Monsieur Laurent murmured when he caught sight of Mrs. Henry curled up in pain at the foot of the stairs. From there, everything seemed to blur around little Timothy.
Monsieur Laurent’s panicked 911 call, the emergency medics leaping from the ambulance, and Mrs. Henry being hastily bundled onto a stretcher and towards the glare of flashing emergency lights passed before his eyes in disjointed, confusing snapshots of awareness. When he finally snapped out of the daze, the ambulance was gone, and so was Mrs. Henry.