The Reign of Young Tim Drake
The grand halls of Drake Manor were usually a place of quiet sophistication—marble floors gleaming under golden chandeliers, pristine artwork lining the walls, and an air of wealth that spoke volumes. But today, none of that elegance mattered.
Because at the center of the extravagant living room, was none other than young Tim Drake, no older than four, who was in full meltdown mode.
“I WANT IT NOW!” Tim shrieked, his tiny fists clenched as he stomped his foot against the pristine carpet. His face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks as he wailed at the top of his lungs.
His mother, Janet Drake, sat on the velvet couch, rubbing her temples, barely looking up from the fashion magazine in her hands. His father, Jack Drake, glanced up briefly from his laptop, visibly irritated.
“Timothy,” Jack said in a clipped tone. “We’re not buying you another toy helicopter. You lost the last one in the koi pond.”
Tim’s wailing only grew louder. “That’s because the gardener scared me when he was cleaning it! It wasn’t my fault!”
“ The "gardener" has a name Timothy, it's Mr. Francis please do try and remember the staff names, dear" Janet Reprimand.
"But he's the help!! as if I'll be wasting my time on such things" Tim scoffed up at his mother.
Jack sighed giving into the demands that of a four year old. "We’ll buy you another next time we’re in Europe.”
“I don’t want it later! I want it now!” Tim threw himself onto the expensive Persian rug, kicking his feet wildly, his little designer shoes scuffing against the fabric. “What’s the point of being rich if I can’t have things immediately?!”
Janet exhaled sharply, finally looking over from her magazine once more. “Timothy, you are making a scene. Do you really want to be one of those dreadful children who cry in front of guests?”
Tim sniffled dramatically, blinking up at her. “But—”
“We just had that rug imported from Morocco,” Janet continued with a sigh, “and you’re ruining it.”
Jack, clearly fed up, pulled out his phone. “Fine. I’ll have someone send a new one. Are you happy now?”
Instantly, Tim stopped crying. His little face brightened, and he sat up quickly. “Really?”
Jack barely glanced at him. “Yes, really.”
Tim wiped his tears with the sleeve of his overpriced sweater and beamed. “Can I get the deluxe one with the night vision camera too?”
Jack shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”
Tim pouted for a second, but the moment his father looked away, a mischievous grin spread across his face. He knew exactly how to get what he wanted—he just had to be a little more dramatic next time.
Now that he had convinced his parents to get him a new plane he was off to bother Mr. Frank, or whatever his name was.
_______
Like every Gotham elite the Drakes were required to attend every important gala especially those held by a Wayne as they were on top of the food chain and missing one without a valid reason would ensure you receive the most vicious of backlash from the press. This of course upset Tim greatly.
At the center of the polished extravagance stood seven-year-old Tim Drake, decked out in an impeccably tailored miniature black tuxedo with a red tie to match his father, his neatly combed hair only slightly tousled from his endless sulking.
"This is so boring," Tim groaned, dramatically slouching beside his mother, who barely spared him a glance as she sipped her champagne. "Why do I have to be here?"
His father, chuckled, adjusting his cufflinks as he greeted a business associate. "Because, Timothy, you’re a Drake. And Drakes attend these kind of events."
Tim huffed, kicking at the marble floor with his tiny dress shoes. "Well, then I don't wanna be a Drake! I could be at home playing with my drone."
Janet sighed, finally looking down at him. "Timothy, fix your posture. You look like a commoner and that's exactly what you will be if you keep this act up."
Tim straightened up immediately, but only because he spotted Bruce Wayne across the room, surrounded by guests. His eyes narrowed. Wayne had a son now, right? Some kid named Dick or Rick or whatever.
Lucky.
Tim turned back to his parents. "If I have to be here, can I at least get dessert? That waiter keeps walking around with those fancy little chocolate things—"
Jack waved a hand dismissively. "Go. But don’t embarrass us."
Instantly, Tim perked up, zipping off towards the catering table with newfound purpose.
A few minutes later, he returned with five delicate, handcrafted chocolate truffles, stacked precariously on a napkin. He took a bite out of one, pure bliss washing over his face.
Janet blinked at him in mild horror. "Timothy, those are fifty-dollar truffles."
Tim, mouth full of chocolate, shrugged. "Tastes like a hundred."
Jack sighed, rubbing his temples. "At least try to act refined."
Tim swallowed and gave his father a serious look. "I am refined. I just have expensive taste."
And with that, he grabbed another truffle, completely ignoring the disapproving looks of Gotham’s elite.
"Timothy if you wish to keep embarrassing us next time we'll leave you at home" Jack whispered harshly down at boy whose face was completely covered in chocolate.
"Good! that's what I wanted anyways" Tim shot back equally as harsh.
"Timothy," Janet hissed under her breath, dabbing at his face with a silk napkin. "This is humiliating."
Jack sighed, shaking his head. "How did you even manage to get this messy? You were gone for five minutes."
Tim scowled, twisting away from his mother’s napkin assault. "You told me to get dessert! What was I supposed to do, eat like a peasant?"
Janet pinched the bridge of her nose. "You are a peasant if you can’t keep it off your face."
Jack sighed. "At least try to look presentable before—"
Before he could finish, a voice interrupted them.
"Jack! Janet!"
The couple turned just as Bruce Wayne approached, a casual but confident smile on his face. The ever-charming billionaire was dressed in his usual effortless sophistication, and at his side stood 11-year-old Dick Grayson, looking slightly less amused.
Janet immediately straightened, her scolding forgotten, and Jack quickly forced a polite smile. "Bruce! It’s good to see you."
Tim, however, was still pouting, only barely registering that Gotham’s richest man had just walked up. That was, until his eyes flickered to the kid standing beside Bruce—Dick Grayson.
Tim narrowed his eyes. Oh, great. Wayne’s circus kid.
Meanwhile, Bruce’s own gaze flickered downward, taking in Tim’s chocolate-covered face, the smudges on his tux, and the desperate way his parents were trying to clean him up without making a scene.
Dick immediately snorted, biting his lip to keep from laughing. "Dude… what happened to your face?"
Tim scowled, crossing his arms. "I was enjoying my dessert. Something wrong with that, Grayson?"
Dick raised his hands in mock defense, still grinning. "Nah, man, you do you. Just looks like you lost a fight with a chocolate fountain."
Tim, still clearly irritated, wiped at his face with his sleeve, which only made it worse.
Bruce, effortlessly composed, smirked slightly before turning back to Jack and Janet. "It’s good to see you both here. And Tim—looks like you found the best part of the gala."
Tim, still chewing on the inside of his cheek, muttered, "At least something about this place is worth it."
Janet shot him a look so sharp it could cut glass. "Timothy."
Bruce chuckled, but Dick just grinned wider, nudging Tim with his elbow. "Man, you’re such a rich kid."
Tim huffed, crossing his arms tighter. "And your so not."
Dick shrugged. "Yeah, but at least I know how to eat chocolate without making it fashion."
Tim glared, but before he could come up with a snarky response, Janet—desperate to save what little dignity was left—quickly laughed and said, "Timothy was just about to excuse himself to freshen up, weren’t you, darling?"
Tim groaned loudly. "Ugh, fine. But I’m taking more truffles with me."
Jack sighed, rubbing his temples. Bruce, thoroughly amused, just smiled as Tim stomped away, a very entertained Dick Grayson trailing behind him.
Tim stomped inside the pristine bathroom, still grumbling under his breath as he made his way to the sink.
Trailing right behind him, was Dick Grayson, hands in his pockets, a huge smirk plastered on his face.
Tim immediately turned around with a scowl. “Why are you following me?”
Dick shrugged, still looking far too amused for Tim’s liking. “Just making sure you don’t drown in the sink, your highness.”
Tim rolled his eyes so hard they might’ve fallen out of his head. "I don’t need your help."
He turned back to the mirror and groaned at the sight of himself—chocolate smeared all over his face, his perfect tuxslightly wrinkled, and his hair a mess.
He grabbed a napkin, aggressively wet it under the faucet, and started scrubbing at his face. Too hard, apparently, because now his cheeks were turning red.
Dick leaned against the counter, watching him struggle. “Dude, you’re gonna rub your skin off.”
Tim shot him a glare through the mirror. “Go away.”
Dick held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying, for someone so spoiled, you’d think you’d know how to clean yourself up properly.”
Tim snapped. “I do know how! I just—”
Before he could finish, Dick reached over, grabbed a fresh napkin, and easily wiped off a chocolate smear Tim had missed.
Tim froze.
His eye twitched.
Then—without thinking—he swatted Dick’s hand away.
“I SAID I DON’T NEED HELP CIRCUS FREAK !” Tim shoved him—not hard, but just enough to make his point.
Dick barely budged, still smirking but the hurt was evident of his face. “Jeez, relax, kid. I wasn’t gonna let you go back out there looking like a feral raccoon.”
Tim clenched his fists, cheeks turning pink—whether from frustration or embarrassment, he wasn’t sure. “I’d rather be a feral raccoon than get help from you.”
Dick shrugged. “Your loss.”
Tim turned back to the mirror, aggressively fixing his hair while still glaring at Dick through the reflection. Dick, in turn, just leaned back on the counter, completely unbothered, watching Tim struggle with mild amusement.
“…You really take yourself too seriously,” Dick muttered after a moment.
Tim scowled. “And you really don’t take yourself seriously enough.”
Dick just scoffed, pushing off the counter. “Alright, prince brat, have fun fixing your very important hair.”
And with that, he strolled out of the bathroom, leaving Tim fuming by the sink.
from then on I guess you could say the two defiantly had a rocky relationship.
________
It was never good when Tim was left home alone the massive estate was always so eerily quiet, save for the distant ticking of an expensive grandfather clock. Tim was seated in the middle of the extravagant but empty living room, nursing a massive bowl of ice cream in his lap, remote in hand, and a deep, annoyed frown coloring his face.
Across from him, a freshly packed pair of luggage bags sat by the front door, abandoned—his parents had already left hours ago for yet another “business trip.”
Tim shoved a huge spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, staring at the massive TV without really watching it.
Another trip. Another week—probably more—of being left alone in this giant house.
Well, not completely alone. There were still the housekeepers, the chefs, the security team, and the driver. But it didn’t count. None of them were his parents.
With a sharp huff, Tim grabbed the house phone from the side table and angrily punched in a number. It rang three times before the robotic voicemail kicked in.
"You have reached the voicemail of—Jack and Janet Drake. We are currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep."
BEEP.
Tim’s grip tightened around the phone. His legs swung off the couch, kicking aimlessly as he glared at the blinking red light on the machine.
“…You didn’t even say goodbye,” he muttered.
There was a beat of silence.
His parents would probably never even listen to this message. They never did.
Still, he stayed on the line, his voice quieter now.
“…Whatever. I don’t care.”
With that, he slammed the phone back onto the receiver.
The big, empty house stayed silent.
But when the Drakes were home Tim was ecstatic, though it may not always seem like he was he simply acted in ways he knew was sure to get his parents attention . The grand dining room of Drake Manor was a vision of wealth and luxury—polished mahogany table, imported crystal chandeliers, and an elaborate dinner spread that had barely been touched. But instead of a peaceful meal, the room was filled with the exasperated sighs of Jack and Janet Drake and the increasingly dramatic pleas of their seven year old son, Tim.
"Mom, Dad, please," Tim whined, leaning forward with desperation in his eyes. "I need the new Olympus E-500! It’s got dual lenses, 8-megapixel resolution, and a faster shutter speed!"
Jack Drake barely looked up from his steak, cutting into it with practiced ease. "Timothy, you already have a perfectly fine camera."
"Fine isn’t good enough!" Tim groaned, dramatically throwing his hands in the air. "I can’t just go around taking mediocre photos like some kind of amateur! What will people think?"
Janet, sipping her wine, barely acknowledged him. "I highly doubt your little photos will make or break your social standing, dear."
Tim gasped, as if personally offended by the very suggestion. "Excuse me?! Photography is an art, Mother! And how am I supposed to capture the depth of human expression with a camera that has a shutter lag?!" He practically spat the last words as if they were disgusting.
Jack sighed, rubbing his temple. "Tim, you have three cameras already."
Tim scoffed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. "Oh, sure, if you count that relic from last year, and the one that takes ages to process RAW images—"
"You’re seven," Jack cut in. "You don’t need a professional camera."
Tim let out the most exasperated groan yet, dramatically slumping back as if his soul had left his body. "Oh my god, why do you guys never understand?"
Janet sighed, giving Jack a tired look before turning to Tim. "If we say yes, will you stop whining through dinner?"
Tim immediately sat up straight, hope flashing in his eyes. "Yes. Absolutely. I’ll be silent."
Jack and Janet exchanged a knowing look.
"Fine," Jack muttered. "I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow."
Instantly, Tim’s face lit up like Christmas morning. "You guys are the best!" He beamed, already pulling out his phone to check the specs again. "Oh! And if we’re getting that, we might as well get the telephoto lens too—"
Jack shot him a glare.
Tim quickly shut up, but inside, he was already planning his next tactical negotiation.