Chapter Text
The first time Bruce saw Tim Drake was at a gala. People were reveling in their champagne glasses, lost in conversations that ranged from gossiping about the newest socialites to criticizing Bruce’s ballroom simply because its colors weren’t autumnal enough. Bruce had long since stopped paying attention to such things, keeping his Brucie Wayne persona firmly in place—attending politely or pretending to be so drunk he’d mistake a plant for a beautiful woman.
What he hadn’t expected was that, while pretending to take a third glass of champagne, he would bump into something at his feet. It was barely a small obstruction in his path, but Bruce was certain Alfred had removed everything nonessential from the room days ago, so he wasn’t sure what this little obstacle could possibly be.
And when he looked down, he saw him. Neatly combed black hair, bright blue eyes… and he was the smallest thing Bruce had ever seen. The tiniest suit he’d ever encountered, elegant little shoes that could have passed for keychains, a child so small that Bruce was sure his forearm alone would be enough to lift him…
He shook his head for a moment, pushing those almost cloying thoughts out of his mind as he looked back at the child in front of him. He wasn’t certain, but it truly was the smallest child he had ever seen up close. Of course, Brucie Wayne occasionally donated to children’s hospitals and schools or kissed babies like any good billionaire, but this was the first time he’d been faced with something so fragile. The child’s head didn’t even reach his hip; it would probably take three of Bruce’s fingers to cover just one of the boy’s, and Bruce was almost sure that, had he been a little more careless, he might have stepped on him like a forklift crushing a blade of grass.
The little boy stared up at him with curiosity, those big eyes that seemed to take in the entire world as something new…
Before Bruce could continue marveling at just how small a child could be, he noticed a woman approaching: a firm posture, an icy gaze, and the unmistakable aura of someone who had everything under control. Janet Drake—the intriguing and beautiful neighbor. She was a woman Bruce had once had the pleasure of flirting with, pretending to be drunk enough to earn a dismissal so sharp yet polite that Alfred had had to pull him out of his stupor, stopping him from pursuing her by reminding him that she was very much married and entirely unwilling to ruin her reputation for him.
Now that beauty stood before him, carrying the boy on her hip with the same ease she might carry an elegant handbag.
And of course, behind her, her husband—just another rich idiot who had spent the evening trying to strike deals with every man with a company in attendance at the gala. He ruffled the boy’s hair (not gently enough, in Bruce’s opinion), completing the image of a wealthy, perfect family in a matter of seconds. Bruce wondered if they had rehearsed it to impress potential partners.
“Bruce,” Jack Drake said, nodding politely in his direction with a courteous smile. “I see you had the pleasure of meeting Timothy.”
Timothy. Even the name seemed far too large for a child so small.
“I’d say I came closer to meeting the floor thanks to him,” Bruce joked, using one of those half-drunk rich man’s chuckles that seemed to earn him goodwill from everyone.
“Timothy tends to have that problem,” Janet replied, glancing down at the boy on her hip with an expression that was half reproachful and half amused. Bruce was sure she would have been delighted to see him fall because of her son; he almost wished it had happened just to hear her comment. “At five, he’s still as small as a preschooler.”
“He takes after you in that sense, doesn’t he?” Bruce added with the familiar mix of flirtation and awkwardness that had earned him a reputation for being a man hopelessly in love with anything that had a pulse. “You’re still as beautiful and youthful as the first time I saw you, Janet.”
Jack Drake’s laughter couldn’t have been louder as he wrapped an arm around Janet and nodded. He seemed far too pleased, and Bruce was almost certain it was because he enjoyed watching Brucie Wayne—still a lovestruck puppy—fascinated by his wife, knowing he could never have her. Bruce hated how real that thought felt.
“It’s true—little Timothy is almost entirely Janet,” Jack said, looking at the boy, who now seemed to be surveying the entire room with even greater fascination from his elevated vantage point. “He’s a little genius, just like her. If it weren’t for his hair and complexion, I’d say Janet cloned herself instead of us having a child together.”
Janet gave Jack a playful shove, looking more proud than annoyed at the fact that her son resembled her so closely. After all, Janet Drake was well known for her fondness for flattery—and, oh, the two men beside her were more than happy to indulge that trait.
Unfortunately, the conversation soon drifted toward business—after all, it was a gala—and away from matters concerning the small boy in Janet’s arms. Even so, Bruce would remember it clearly forever: the first time he had found himself awestruck by a child and almost—just almost—wishing that child were his own son…
Just almost.
Little did Bruce know that only a few weeks later, he would find a son of his own to care for.