Chapter Text
The rain was cold.
Like, freezing cold.
Not the nice kind of rain either. Gotham never had nice rain. It was the gross type that soaked through clothes in five seconds and made everything smell like wet garbage and cigarettes and probably was too acidic to even be water.
Tim hated it.
A miserable meow left his mouth as he curled tighter into himself, fur plastered against his side from the water dripping through the cardboard above him.
Which was sagging now.
Great.
His cardboard box — yes, his cardboard box, because apparently this was his life now — was slowly collapsing in on itself from the rainwater. Water pooled beneath his paws, soaking into his fur, and every gust of wind made him shake harder.
This sucked.
Actually, no. Sucked was an understatement.
Three weeks ago, he’d been sleeping in a giant heated bed in Drake Manor.
Now he was a soaking wet alley cat living behind a convenience store.
Another shiver wracked through him, and he pressed himself further into the corner of the box with a pathetic little huff.
How did this happen?
Seriously.
How had his life gone from warm manor hallways, making pancakes, to sleeping in a cardboard box while rainwater dripped directly onto his head every thirty seconds?
Easy.
It started with a gala.
Because every bad thing in Tim Drake’s life somehow always started with a stupid gala.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
ONE MONTH EARLIER
It all starts with a gala.
Every bad thing always starts with a gala.
Tim adjusted his suit for what felt like the millionth time in the past hour, trying his best not to look uncomfortable and fidgety.
In the past hour, he had straightened his tie about fifteen times and popped his knuckles five, eyes darting anywhere and everywhere at once—wide and alert.
Normally, he wasn’t so fidgety, always having a straight back and a gala smile. Normally, he was nice and polite, seeming cool and not nervous at all. He was always so polite.
Not tonight.
Definitely not tonight.
People around him were definitely enjoying themselves; glasses clinked as couples toasted, laughter filtered through the ballroom, old people having too much fun as they swayed and danced lovingly.
Tim was having a very, very hard time being that carefree, eyes darting around the room and taking in every detail, body taut with hyperawareness.
There was a man already drunk, stumbling and lifting his glass to nothing, a tribute to nothing but the ability to be there, rich and wasting his life away.
A woman was eyeing the snack table, eyes wide and longing like she wanted something to eat other than the champagne tightly knuckled in her grip, but her husband kept a firm hand on her shoulder, blabbering away to some rich businessman.
The sternness in his mother's voice made him suppress a flinch. Some part of him had forgotten that he was supposed to be some rich, stuck-up version of a scout, trying to find possible business deals.
Instead, the 11-year-old was standing idly off to the side like he was somewhere he didn’t belong.
“Timothy, we brought you to this gala for a reason, you know.” His mother gently scolded him, her hand lifted to sit on his shoulder, a sickening reminder.
“I’m sorry, mother. I don’t feel that well.” Tim quickly lied; it wasn’t really a lie, he didn’t feel well, but the reasons were for something entirely different than a simple cold.
Tim had a secret, a really, really important secret. If anyone found out, he’s pretty sure he would be sent to the deep depths of Arkham.
“Oh, Timothy. You don’t look sick.” Janet cooed, bringing up a hand to feel the back of his forehead. When she didn’t feel a particular warmth radiating from him, she retracted her hand with a suspicious expression.
“You don’t feel sick, either.” Her tone was dry; she clearly didn’t believe him.
“Maybe it’s just nerves,” Tim suggested smoothly, giving it a nonchalant shrug. In reality, his fingers twitched, and he was blatantly aware of some man’s raucous laughter a few feet away.
Janet gave him one last suspicious look before waving him off.
“Go mingle.”
Then she left to go speak to a fancy-looking man with a monocle.
Tim took a deep breath to steady himself, watching his mother leave without a second glance.
“Okay, yeah…go mingle.” Tim turned around—ready to face the crowd and—
He froze.
There were so many people.
This was unlike him; he never got overwhelmed at galas, never had to leave early, and never felt as horrible as he did in the moment.
Partially, he could blame this fully on the fact that he hadn’t shifted into his cat form for a couple of weeks, and from the millions of articles he had read online, you had to shift regularly to feel healthy.
In an article that listed the side effects of not shifting regularly, he had read that you could begin to feel twitchy and overwhelmed.
But why today?
Why did all the bad things happen at galas?
Oh, how he yearned to shift into the black cat he was meant to be and curl up, maybe into a loaf, and sleep. Or he just wanted to go out and explore the city again, chase a few birds.
Except his parents might’ve been staying longer than he thought, and if they found out he was a meta-human, he was pretty sure he would be locked in his room like Rapunzal and given food at the appropriate times, which did not really sound like a good way to spend the rest of his life.
Yeah, he did have a whole google document of what to do if they ever did find out, which included lots and lots of plans from A-Q, each detailing a different method and way of escape.
The bigger picture was that he was prepared.
One foot in front of another. He thought strongly as he finally stepped into the crowd.
Talking to people ended up being exhausting; he easily slipped into his gala confidence and mingled with adults and older people, mentioning Drake Industries at times with careful precision.
Besides, who could resist an eleven-year-old with a baby face and who was probably shorter than he was supposed to be?
After getting his cheeks aggressively pinched by an older lady who squinted at him through her glasses while she praised him for how charming a young man he was, he found himself lingering at the snack table, staring longingly at cheese and crackers.
His mother would be mad if he ate too much or was seen lounging by the snack table, because apparently that was lazy and greedy.
He let out a long sigh, his hands still shaking and his eyes twitchy.
“You know, the snacks aren’t for show, they’re completely edible.” A stupidly familiar voice spoke from beside him, and he startled.
(It’s not his fault, okay?)
Turning around, Tim locked eyes with none other than Jason Todd, Mr. Wayne’s adoptive child, and…
Robin.
Holy crap, Robin was talking to him!
Was Tim dreaming?
“Uh—“
“Don’t stutter, Timothy, it makes you look anxious.” He could practically hear his mother chanting in his head.
He straightened out.
“I know that, I’m just full from dinner.” His voice was smooth, and Jason freaking Todd, who was dressed in a burgundy suit, raised an eyebrow as if he didn’t fully believe Tim.
“Damn, how late did you eat dinner? It’s like…8:30?” Jason questioned with raised eyebrows, taking a measured step towards Tim, who was trying his best not to fidget.
“We just eat later,” Tim deflected easily, flashing a small smile.
Jason took a second to contemplate his answer before shrugging.
“Touché, we also eat dinner late, so I can’t blame you I guess.”
Crisis avoided!
Tim let out a small smile, turning to Jason and extending his hand.
“I’m Timothy Drake.” He introduced himself quickly like his mother had taught him, flashing one of his Gala smiles™ and following his mental checklist of introduction protocol.
Straighten your back and make direct eye contact with said person.
Extend your hand for them to shake it, don’t break eye contact.
Once they take your hand, shake it firmly, not loosely.
Jason froze like he didn’t really know what to do, then relaxed and extended his hand to meet Tim’s and shake it.
“Jason Todd. Can I just call you Tim? Timothy is wayyy too long.”
Tim easily nodded, masking the relief by chuckling softly to himself.
“I prefer Tim anyway.”
Jason beamed at him and looked more energetic at the thought of having something to talk to at a gala, his face broke into a toothy grin.
“Okay!” Jason grabbed a cracker and shuffled a piece of cheese onto it, then grabbed another one and handed the first one to Tim.
“Cheese-cracker pact.” Was the only explanation Tim got, so he gingerly took the cracker, and Jason held up his own like he was doing a toast.
“For having a friend at these boring galas!” He announced.
Tim smiled and held up his cracker. Jason cracked another smile, and they clinked their crackers, which made some crumbs break off, but Jason didn’t care. He just stuffed them in his mouth, and Tim followed suit, nibbling on his
.
“It’s official,” Jason said when he finished chewing.
“Official,” Tim repeated like a mantra, finally breaking into a wider grin, letting his smooth persona drop ever so slightly, just to appear more friendly.
He had a friend, and it was Robin!!
HOLY FUDGESICLES HIS FRIEND WAS ROBIN–
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
“Did you find anything useful, champ?” His father spoke from the front of the car, and Tim wasn’t an idiot, so he made sure to at least get some dirt.
“Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood are getting divorced, which means the company might split up.” He reported, not taking his eyes off the scenery out the backseat window.
His mother made a noise of happiness, and he heard the maliciousness seep from her voice.
“That means they’re vulnerable. So is their company. Thank you, Timothy.” She practically purred.
Tim zoned out from the back seat as his father and mother began to plan blackmail, speaking idly from the front seat, exchanging plans and planning.
His fingers twitched from where they gripped the end of the seat, his legs shook.
He needed to shift, even if it was just for 30 minutes to an hour.
His parents would likely go to bed after this, so he could sleep in his cat form, wake up before his parents, and shift back.
Easy peasy!
When they finally got home, his father told him to wash up while his mother explained they were going to bed. Tim just nodded and quickly told them a formal goodnight before retreating upstairs.
Finally, alone time, no one whispering passive threats into his ear or gripping his shoulder so tightly he was sure he had moon-shaped marks freckled into his skin.
A quick shower and a change into his pajamas later, Tim sat on his bed, blankets rustled into a makeshift cat bed to make it more comfortable for him.
His alarm clock was set to 7:30, an hour before his parents would get up.
It was perfect.
Carefully, Tim closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling his body do the weird tingly thing it did when he shifted.
When he opened his eyes, the world sharpened, and he was in the body of Cat-Tim, who was much smaller, leaner, and oh my goodness, ess it was exhilarating.
He felt so much better, his whole body relaxed, and he made a sound that sounded a lot like a purr, his entire body rumbling as he kneaded the blanket.
Finally, content and warm, he closed his eyes and drifted off to a warm sleep.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
“TIMOTHY JACKSON DRAKE!”
Tim startled so quickly that it forced him out of the cat form with a yelp, and he scrambled and untwisted himself from the blankets, only resulting in a tumble off the bed.
Before he even had time to recover from the harsh wake-up, hands seized the back of his hair and dragged him to his feet.
“Timothy Jackson Drake.” The voice repeated, and he froze as he recognized his father, and all warmth in his body shifted into cold panic.
“Father—“
“Don’t ‘father’ me!” Jack snapped, grip tightening in Tim’s hair, making the boy whine involuntarily.
“You'd better explain to me why you were sleeping on your bed as a stray!” Jack boomed, making Tim flinch.
“I—I…” Tim trailed off as he realized he couldn’t explain himself.
Oh no.
His father made a noise of anger that sounded like a huff, dragging Tim out of his room, down the hall, and down the stairs while he stumbled helplessly beside Jack.
“JANET!” Jack screamed again as they got to the landing, making Tim flinch and watch in horror as his mother scurried out of the kitchen, eyes wide.
“Jack, what’s going on?!” she demanded.
“Our son was sleeping in his room, as a CAT!”
Janet gave him a look of confusion, tilting her head, eyes narrowed as she studied the shaking boy who was held by his hair.
“What?”
Jack sighed angrily, grip tightening painfully again.
“Our son is a…a metahuman!”
Hearing the words made Tim flinch. He was sweating, still in plain pajamas from the night before, wide-awake despite being awoken only five minutes ago.
“A…what?!” Janet’s voice rose in slight anger, looking at Tim to Jack, then back to Tim.
“A freak! A fucking freak!” Jack spat, voice almost to the brink of screaming.
Tim never imagined Jack would yell those words, even if he did have some notable anger issues…
“What do we do?” Janet’s voice quivered, “We can’t let the press know we have a metahuman son…”
Really? Her son was being manhandled, and she was worried about the press.
Jack's eyes turned dark as he stared directly at Tim, making the boy cowardly whine and cower, averting his eyes to the floor and just staring, making no move to look Jack in the eye like the professional boy he was supposed to be.
“Well, we can’t have a metahuman running around now, can we?” It was a rhetorical question, of course it was. Tim had no say in this, he couldn’t voice an opinion or protest or anything.
Janet shook her head, eyebrows crinkled in the way that always told Tim something was stressing her out, she always had the same facial expression on whenever that happened, and he always knew to not talk to her when her face would shift, because talking to her during those times meant getting scolded.
None of that mattered because Tim was about 96% sure they were either going to lock him up or send him on the streets, every other conclusion led to his parents being cool about it, but that was highly, highly unlikely.
“Send him up to his room, lock the door to make sure he can’t get out.” Janet waved him off quickly, Tim faltered.
“Mom–you can’t, you can’t–” Tim tried to plead, legs going shaky and threatened to give out on him if he didn’t have a hand holding his hair like a vice, his breaths coming out loud and shallow.
“Timothy, do you know how bad this is?” Janet pressed a hand and pinched her nose, eyes shutting with a loud sigh.
“Mom–”
“Enough, Timothy. Pleading is childish behavior.”
Then Janet turned around and stalked away, heels clicking against the marble floors and all Tim could do was stand there in shock.
Complete.
Utter.
Shock.
His senses had sharpened due to the threats around him, like how Jack was holding his hair too hard, making Tim scared that he was going to yank it right off of his head. Like how the silence echoed through the too-empty manor. Like how he was so, so scared.
Janet had waved him off, just like that.
The world narrowed and time felt almost irrelevant to Tim, he drifted.
Drifted to when he was safe and when life was simple, when he would skid through the empty house in his cat form, leaping on the couch and kneading on blankets, warmth would course through his body and he would purr, his tiny body rumbling and a content smile on his face, safe.
Safe safe safe safe safe.