Chapter Text
originally posted on Archive of our own (ao3)
Timothy Drake did not mean to find the league of assassins; didn’t mean to impress Ra’s al ghul. Timothy Drake didn’t mean to have his parents killed (an inconvenience that he could work around). Then again, he didn’t mean to do a lot of things.
Timothy drake was a somewhat strange child. From early on it was clear that he was smarter than the average child his age. By the age of four, he was able to calculate and understand complex mathematical equations, and by five, he had read the entire lord of the rings (no that his parents would ever know that he had indulged in something so childish). His parents, Jack and Janet, never bothered to send the boy to school. Instead, they hired a wide variety of teachers to tutor their son in all the subjects that they deemed necessary for a Drake heir to learn while they were away. by the time Timothy had reached the ripe old age of six, he had gone through ten nannies (two declared missing and the others fired for ‘inappropriate behavior’ (read: being kind to a lonely child)), and worked out that Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Despite the constantly revolving roster of people that inhabited his house, Timothy was a lonely child. His parents spent more time in other countries then they did with their own son. The times that they were home where a rare treat and something that Timothy was eternally grateful for. Despite these occasional yearly visits, Timothy couldn’t help but wish that his parents would stay longer. He was never selfish enough to voice these thoughts, of course, good children didn’t complain about such trivial things.
The hot Egyptian sun beat down upon the scorching sands. The sounds of shovels shifting sand and unearthing lost treasures could be heard in the humid air. Tim was not as bothered by the heat as the adults around him. The seven year old was too grateful for his parent bringing him along on this trip to complain (another nannie had been fired). He was dressed in khaki shorts and a white shirt. A wide-brimmed, tan hat covered the light curls of his short black hair and protected his pale face from the harsh sun. In his opinion, Tim was dressed much more appropriately than his parents were; their three piece business suits must have been sweltering in the heat. He would not, however, voice this opinion. Good children where to be seen only when necessary, and never, ever heard. Tim wanted so, so desperately to be good. If he was good, then maybe his parents might let him stay a little bit longer and not send him back to Gotham. Maybe if he was good enough, mother or father might give him a hug. No. No that would be selfish to hope for such things. He was lucky that they let him come on this trip in the first place.
A woman approaching them was what eventually brought Tim out of his thoughts. She was dressed similarly to himself, but her long, dark hair was flowing over her left shoulder. One her tanned arms, she wore a watch and several bangles that matched with her simple gold earrings. She walked like a model on a catwalk, full of confidence and grace, even though she was in desert boots and walking on scorching sands.
His mother put her hand on his shoulder, and it took all of his will not to lean into the touch. An ungrateful child like him hardly deserved a brief hand on the shoulder, let alone one that would stay there.
“Timothy. This is Ms Talia al ghul. She is the sponsor for this dig and a friend of the family,” His mother’s cool, clinical voice drifted over his ears as she introduced the woman that stood before them. “Talia. This is our son, Timothy.”
Talia looked down at him. Her gaze was sharp and precise, as she seemed to analyse his every move. With the intensity of her look, Tim could have sworn that she was trying to read his mind and divulge his deepest darkest secrets. He wondered what she saw. Did she see all the effort he put into being such a good child? Did she see how tired of being passed from adult to adult he was? Did she see the desperate hope that his parent would love him (something that he clung to like a lifeline)? Did she see the desperation for the barest form of affection or positive human interaction?
Tim extended his hand out towards the woman. “It’s nice to meet you Ms al ghul.” He said as she shook his hand/ her grip war strong for someone with such delicate looking hands. Tim could feel the calluses that decorated her palms rubbing against his soft, childish hands. Talia was someone that Tim would not like to get on the bad side of.
“It is nice to meet you also little one. Would you mind if I borrowed your parent for a little while?” Talia asked. Tim looked to his mother. She was casting a cold look his way. One that said, ‘if you mess this up, I will disown you.’ Tim hated those look. They meant that he wasn’t being good, and if he wasn’t being good then his parents would leave.
“I don’t mind ma’am.”
Then just like that, his parents where leaving with Talia. Leaving him alone, like always.
Talia al ghul did not particularly like the Drakes. She respected Janet’s drive and dedication to her work, and she tolerated Jack’s presence when necessary, but that was about as far as her patience was willing to go for the couple. Never the less, Talia understood that her father sponsored the Drakes digs because the profits that they bought in where useful to the league. So she usually bit her tongue and did her business quickly for the first few days that she was required to be present on a dig sight. She didn’t know what exactly it was that she didn’t like about the Drakes, it was more an instinctual feeling than anything. Something about the couple didn’t sit right with her, and this was coming from a professional assassin. They always seemed so unattached, unpersonable. Most people that she met, whether they be politician or peasants, talked about their home; their family; anything that had some personal value to them. Most mothers spoke of their children, positive or negative. Up until a few minutes ago, Talia didn’t even know that the Drakes had a son. And, god, that boy had been tiny. He was skinny as a twig and paler than the snow that decorated Nanda Parbat during the winter. Moreover, the way that the boy had leaned into his mother’s hand like that. As a newly expecting mother herself (just on 10 weeks), Talia prayed to whoever was up there that she would never treat her child the way that she suspected the drakes did.
The small then that they stood in had been converted into an office. The three occupants of the space had each taken a seat and where now waiting for someone to say something.
“I was not aware that you had a son.” Talia stated when the tension in the room reached an unbearable level. Both Jack and Janet seemed to stiffen at the inquiry, which Talia found strange. Janet was the first to speak up, her tone as cold and clinical as Talia had come to expect from the woman sitting across from her.
“Timothy usually stays in Gotham when we go on these trips. He is well looked after by a range of tutors. He is only here because his last nanny had to be relieved of her duty after engaging in some inappropriate behaviour and we couldn’t find a replacement in time. If he’s a bother we can send him back to Gotham.” There was no familiarity in her tone. No warmth when she spoke of her son. It was as if the boy was one of her employees, not worth the effort to care about. It made Talia’s blood boil. Not even her father spoke of the servants of the league that way, and they were the lowest class within her home. What Janet sad next was the iceberg that sunk the titanic: “The boy can be such a nuisance sometime with all his questions and facts. If we didn’t have to spend a mandatory amount of time with him so that he develops properly, then we wouldn’t bother returning to Gotham every year. The boy is almost seven and still can’t seem to fend for himself. If we’re away any longer than eleven months he starts to get upset and has these anxiety attacks. The doctor says that they should get less with the medication that he’s on, but the boy cant seem to stomach the right amount without passing out or being sick.
“Honestly the child should know better than to kick up such a fuss about such trivial things. Hell cry until the point of hyperventilation then either pass out or vomits up whatever he’s eaten that day. It’s completely disgusting and a shame to the family name. The boy is clingy too, whines whenever someone removes the briefest contact from him. Honestly, the boy need to act his age.”
He is acting his age. Talia thought bitterly. The boy, Timothy, she reminded herself, sounded like a textbook case for CPS. There were obvious grounds for child neglect and maybe grounds for abuse charges as well, but Talia was an assassin, not a lawyer. In her experience, people like the Drakes where more likely to pay off any judge to sweep things under the rug and drop charges. She decided there and then that Timothy would not be leaving the country with the Drakes as his legal guardians. Whether that be by legal means or not was entirely dependent on how the next hour minutes went.
They spent the next thirty minutes discussing the dig and the procedures that would follow after it was completed. Once they had wrapped the formalities up, Talia asked whether she may speak with Timothy privately. The Drakes happily obliged and called for the boy to enter the tent. Before they left, the Jack shot the boy a look. One that Talia could not see, but left Timothy going stiff as a board.
The boy approached her as if he was entering a lions den, and she was the hungry lion. His steps were almost silent on the Egyptian carpet that covered the shifting sands and his eyes where down cast. He appeared to be trying to make himself as small as possible, the visual representation of a submissive, scared child. It made her maternal instincts flare up with rage towards the Drakes. How dear they allow their child to be this anxious and fragile. The children of the league, even the most introverted, that were around Timothy’s were full of questions and unable to be kept quiet for too long. It broke her hart to see a child this way.
“You wanted to speak with me ma’am?” his voice was so small and soft. His blue eyes looking up through long, dark lashes into her own emerald. Talia had the sudden urge to wrap the boy up in a hug and never let go.
“You may call me Talia, Timothy.” She responded softly, so as not to scare the child. “Do you wish to be called Timothy, or is there an alternative that you would prefer?”
The young boy bit his lip in consideration before answering, “I prefer Tim, M-Talia.”
“Thank you for telling me that Tim.” She tried to resist, but stupid pregnancy hormones and their urges, “Tim, may I give you a hug?” Talia asked the small child.
The boy look stunned at the question, but gave a small hesitant nod. At the confirmation, Talia lent down and wrapped her arms around the boy. At first, he was a stiff as a board, but after approximately two seconds, he melted like butter into her arms. He snuggled into her chest and arms like a rabbit trying to enter a burrow. It was as if he was trying to permanently mould himself into her body, savouring the hug as if it was the first and last he would ever receive.
No. Jack and Janet would not be leaving Egypt alive.