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Drake Manor has always possessed an eerie stillness. An unnatural quiet embedded within its walls, festering behind brick and plaster, unbeknownst to its inhabitants. The unsettling feeling of wrong lingering like spoiled milk; saturating the Manors foundations.
Tim Drake is aware of this, of course, eight years of familiarity with the manor makes it hard to not notice the distinct displacement in the air, how oxygen seems to lack and dust settles too heavy. He wonders sometimes if it is a consequence of the priceless artefacts stored within— perhaps the ancient vases emit dark energy or the tarnished silver medallions happen to hold incantations.
His father would call it childish to make up nonsense stories.
His father would call him pathetic if he saw him now, small socked feet tiptoeing cautiously on the plush carpet, a faded red blanket dragging slowly behind him, one corner clutched by his tight fist. Be a man, Timothy.
He trembles slightly. His breath a little frantic. The night terror had been worse than usual. It always started the same— heat and flames.
They enclose the manor, creeping through the quiet hallways, destroying everything with their unrelenting fire until they find Tim. It usually ends before they cross the threshold of his room but this time the fire seemed spiteful, inherently violent as it licked at his heels. The vibrant red and orange hues shaping and morphing into humanoid shapes, flames become bruising hands, the inferno screaming and shouting but he can't make out what it says— he can't listen, he never listens. But he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, he-
Tim’s hand slowly touches his lip. His fingertips come back a watery red.
Enamoured, he stares at his pointer finger. The sparkling droplet slowly dripping down his hand. He rubs it against his blanket repeatedly, the soft fabric a comfort, before swallowing down the obtrusive taste of iron.
His mother berates him for the habit. Worrying at his lip when he is anxious is not cohesive with the ‘Drake’ image, certainly not at galas.
A soft hand on his shoulder or a subtle nudge normally reminds him to stop chewing the tender flesh, an unusual comfort comes with the contact, it says I see you, I am here and is usually followed by the discrete gift of a peppermint to suck on while Janet finishes entertaining whatever socialites she can bear for the evening.
His father is less lenient.
He says Tim is abnormal for his age, that his development has been stunted by a definite lack of intelligence, inherited from Janet's side of the family of course. His habits unfit of a Drake— the noticeable lack of eye contact, inexplicable repetitive behaviours and obvious distaste to the social environment he has been raised to flourish in are all recurring topics of heated arguments between him and Janet.
But his mother insists he is perfect, her darling boy.
Soft reassurances are whispered into his hair after particularly bad nights when his father drinks, talking of correctional facilities or military school. Warm, slender hands encircle his rosy cheeks, thumbs soothing falling tears tenderly as his mother presses kisses to his nose and reminds him how to breathe.
He loves his mother very much, loves her soft, blonde curls that smell of the expensive lavender conditioner she imports from the Balkans.
He loves her constellations of beauty marks that are revealed in soft morning light, shoulder slipping from her velvet dressing gown as she berates him softly for wearing shoes on the cream carpets, steaming mug in hand.
He loves how she can provide a millennium of comfort in a simple, knowing smile and knows exactly how to reassure that no the world is not going to end and that everything is okay sweetheart when he's overwhelmed that his pasta isn't Garofalo Rigatoni.
However, Tim is ever attentive.
He's been told often, primarily on his school report cards and by Jack, that he is too curious or nosy for his own good. But he can't help it. He has a natural wonder for analysing information given to him and understanding how and why things work.
Data makes perfect sense to him, it provides variables that can be narrowed down to a simple answer. It's much less tiring than conversing with genuine people, no surprises or lingering awkwardness but plain information that can be sorted into boxes that supply designated outputs.
So when Jack comes home from work and immediately heads for the patio, lighting up a foul-smelling cigarette— Tim knows not to come out of his room for a couple hours.
If Janet's dazzling smile twitches when she stalks out of a particularly exhausting gala he knows to retrieve a small, circular pill from the unlabelled bottle in her en-suite, along with a glass of water to place on her bedside table as she whispers a thank you, darling from beneath the thick comforter.
He is good at guessing what variable comes next. But recently it's been harder.
Tim struggles to ignore the subtle unease within the manor, his attentiveness becoming tasking as the discomforting feeling of something wounds tighter in his chest. He can't place it. But it's there.
He clutches the blanket a little tighter, his other hand tracing the textured wallpaper of the hallway, the little bumps and rivets reminding him of pictures of the vast valleys his mother had shown him from their last dig.
It had been a first for the Drakes, leaving Tim in the care of a nanny whilst they surveyed a site in Sri Lanka. They usually brought him along but Jack had declared he was old enough now to be the man of the house in their stead.
He didn’t mind it much. The lady, Miriam , had let him eat mint-chocolate ice cream every night and watch jellyfish documentaries over and over whilst never raising complaints when Tim would repeat the words in perfect synchronisation.
She was nice but he missed his mom.
Of course they returned after nine long, long days, Janet offering her soft condolences as she scattered kisses onto his face, red lipstick leaving pale marks like a rash along his cheeks.
But Tim can't help dread the next time they leave.
So he soaks in whatever affection he receives. Clings a little tighter to goodbye hugs before school, sits a little quieter in the living room, watching the clock tick past his bedtime and prays Jack won't send him upstairs so he can pretend to fall asleep against his mother's legs, in hopes she might carry him to bed.
If she notices, she doesn't bring it up.
Janet has always been very good at keeping secrets.
Tim holds two compartments in his head for secrets. One for those between him and his mother— their stealthy peppermints, the small sips of wine he's sparingly allowed that leave his mouth sour and vinegary, the circular pills in her bathroom cabinet.
And the one for special secrets, the ones he shouldn't know.
How sometimes Jack will come home, tie loosened, collar slightly askew and his mother will look down, eyes hot, burning. How Janet's cuticles are raw and weeping from the incessant pick, pick, pick of her manicured acrylics against frayed skin as she blankly stares at the television static.
How he knows that his parents aren't regular—-an outlier, an anomaly.
But he's okay with the secrets. He takes after his mother in that way.
Whilst he was born with Jack's strong jaw and jet-black hair, Tim favours his mothers side. High, angular cheekbones, sharp striking blue eyes— the particular type of softness that comes from something hardened.
God never asked Mary if she wanted a son.
Fate abruptly proclaimed motherhood unto her but for a brief time her son was solely hers– unblemished, pure. A product of her own creation, unmatched in such innocence and capable of such love. Her own blood.
Janet Drake refused to let anyone hold Tim in the hospital when he was born.
Dismissed nurses and doctors alike, time passing in a haze as she rocked him back and forth, whispering incoherent words into the soft cluster of his dark hair. She kissed his tiny, tiny fingers, watching in awe as big, blue eyes blinked up at her— he was hers. Hers.
————
Tim hesitates as he stills in front of the imposing wooden door, the dim glow of lamplight casting twirling shadows across the carpet beneath his fidgeting toes. He chews at his lip.
His father never allows him to sleep in bed with them, proclaims it is juvenile. But he is away on Drake Ind. business for the next week so he raises his palm to the brass handle and allows himself to crack the door open a slither— testing the waters cautiously.
The light of the bedroom is a harsh contrast to the darkness in the hall, the perpetrator, a jewelled tiffany lamp sitting on the bedside table, stained glass depicting dancing fireflies in vibrant blues and red. Tim blinks as he pushes the door open, eyes adjusting to the light as he surveys the room.
Despite his parents love of history, the manors interior has always been overly modern, with its sleek, granite countertops and palette of grey, cream and white. But Jack allowed Janet one room. One room to decorate as she pleases, without the confines of contemporary.
The bedroom is a stark contrast to the rest of the mansion, oak panelled wood flooring paired with the detailed, red cherry blossom wallpaper invites Tim in as he tentatively steps on the huge persian rug at the foot of the bed. The white flowers scattering the walls look like little doves.
He tugs at his blanket as it gets caught on the threshold of the door, leaving little tufts of red fabric to remain trapped.
Tim turns and stops at the edge of the plush, quilted comforter, Janet lies on the right-hand side of the bed, mouth slightly agape in deep sleep, duvet rumpled around her. Her golden curls are laid out like a halo on the silk pillowcase, she looks rested. Angelic. The subtle crease of her brow, smoothed— her face completely unmasked, his mother.
Janet Drake has always had an alarming finesse when it comes to facades. She knows how to act, who to talk to, what to say. She knows how to draw attention but only enough that people don't look too long to spot the alarming cracks in her foundations. She's somehow captivating but immensely venomous— like a carnivorous flower.
But this side, her blushed cheeks contrasting her fair skin, beauty marks embellishing soft shoulders, rose lips apart in steady breath. This is Tim's best secret.
He tiptoes to the bed side table and slowly pulls the gold chain attached to the lampshade, it flickers off with a quiet click. The room is doused in darkness, the moonlight guiding Tim as he clambers onto the queen-sized mattress, the silk sheets sliding against his pyjamas. He pulls his blanket along with him, the worn, faded print evidently out of place amongst the abundance of thick, expensive quilts.
Jack had tried to throw it away after his fifth birthday, a screaming Tim grasping onto the material as he tugged and tugged. Janet had intervened eventually, upon hearing the commotion but the damage had already been done, a small tear in the left corner of the blanket left as a reminder.
Tim crawls carefully over to his mother, aware of his movement to not wake her, as he burrows into her side, nuzzling his head against her upper arm, the smooth texture of her moles caressing his face. He yanks the heavy comforter over them both and rests his head against her feather pillow, letting out a tight breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. The nightmare seems miles away now, locked behind the thick door to his mothers bedroom, the flames can't get to him here.
He is safe. He is safe.
Soothed by his mothers presence and the substantial pressure of the blankets he slips into a dreamless sleep.
————
Tim awakes in the same position he fell asleep in, small body curled like a gastropod shell. His short limbs aching as he unfurls from the fetal position. He had learned about the swirled shells from his favourite crustacean documentary, one of the few Janet tolerates to be replayed; she likes the brightly coloured crabs.
Early morning sunlight streams through the small gap in the curtains, dappling patterns over Tim’s face. He rubs at the crust in his eyes.
His skin feels sticky with sweat, the heavy comforter unsuitable for the early July heat but his mother insists on it all year round— she runs cold. If Tim protests she attacks him with her icy hands on the back of his neck, he pretends to hate it but privately adores the gentle weight of her palm.
He wiggles his legs out of the duvet, sitting crossed legged against the old, oak headboard, suppressing a yawn. It's still early. He knows his mother won't awake until later. Despite Janet holding a reputation for being overly punctual she indulges on weekends, allowing the late start to the day in return for a precious lie in.
So Tim stretches his legs out and slides off the bed, picking up his red blanket from where it must have fallen off the bed during the night, hugging it like a cape around his shoulders. He tiptoes out of the bedroom, dancing around the creaky floorboards to avoid unsettling his mother from her sleep before swiftly exiting the room, blanket fluttering behind him.
————
Janet takes her coffee black. A constant, unchanging routine that Tim happily adheres to, bringing her a mug every morning without fail—ever since she taught him how to use the espresso machine. He sits up onto the granite kitchen counter, his feet kicking gently against the cabinet beneath as he waits for the machine to finish spurting out the bitter coffee.
Jack has always highlighted the importance of learning skills to prepare him for manhood. Last year, for his seventh birthday he had gone through the process of cancelling all his Drake Ind. meetings for three days to take Tim wild camping. The heat had been sweltering on the first day, sweat had soaked through his t-shirt, leaving Tim sticky and uncomfortable as Jack tried to teach him to fish. Despite his love of aquatics, Tim had not taken to the activity and had ended up puncturing his palm with a huge fish hook before he had even made a cast, leaving him with three distinct scars on his left-hand.
They went home shortly after.
He much preferred his mothers approach to parenting, she taught him little things— like how to cook pasta himself, never to mix his coloured and white laundry, always to say his thank yous and pleases because being tolerant will get you places in life, Timothy.
The machine finishes with a mechanical click, Tim grabs the mug carefully by the handle. The mug itself is faded, the graphic peeling but Janet insists she takes her morning coffee in it, saying it makes her feel special. The picture on the side depicts a cartoon krill holding a heart, the text reads ‘your one in a krillion!’. It was a mothers day present after they had watched a krill documentary and Janet had snorted when Tim suggested that the little crustaceans were essentially biological glowsticks.
He leaves his blanket on the counter to grasp the mug with two small, steady hands. This bit has always been the most difficult part, trying not to spill a single drop on the cream carpets.
Tim grips the mug as if it were a baby chick, walking slowly but deliberately up the stairs, eyes tracking the light sway of the coffee as it laps the edge. He balances his weight as he makes his way down the hallway to the bedroom, tiptoeing across the carpet until he reaches the door and knocks it firmly with his hip, pushing it open.
Janet is a stationary lump under the duvet, unmoved from the position Tim left her, her blonde curls still perfectly intact from the night before, peeking out from the comforter. Tim creeps over to the nightstand, meticulously placing the coffee down on the bedside table on top of a beaded coaster, the liquid threatens to spill before evening out. Tim lets out a breath.
He glances at the clock sat on the bedside table, it’s quarter to ten.
Although Janet adores her weekend lie-ins, Tim knows she will feel guilty if he leaves her asleep too long so he pushes himself up onto the foot of the bed, crawling up to sit beside his mother. He tilts his head to the side, sucking in a breath before lightly blowing cold air onto her face.
She prefers when he wakes her up this way, she had flinched awake, breathless, the first time a tiny four year old Tim had shook her awake. Tim never asked why, just from the look in his mothers eyes he knew he wouldn't do it again.
Janet doesn't stir. Tim tries again, blowing with more pressure this time. But the outcome doesn't change.
Brows furrowed in confusion, Tim reaches for the edge of the duvet, peeling it back from his mothers face. The inside edge of the white sheet is stained an oxidised red.
He flinches, dropping the material immediately. A small dark smudge staining his pointer finger.
Janet's eyes are still closed, a small rivulet of blood snaking from her mouth. It’s dripped down to her chin, collecting in a pool on her neck, bleeding into her pillowcase.
Tim sucks in a wet, stilted gasp. Nonononono-
“Mom,” Tim tries, his voice comes out small.
He grabs her by the shoulders, his twitching hands gripping tight enough to bruise as he shakes her, once, twice but her limp body slumps against the sheets like a marionette with its strings cut.
Hot tears slip down his face, he can taste the salt, seeping into the tender skin on his bottom lip as he clambers on top of her, one ear to Janet's chest desperately searching for the steady thump, thump, thump.
Silence.
A vicious sob wracks his frame as he presses his face against her neck, seeking for comfort. Anything. Anything.
All he feels is the wet slide of blood against his cheeks.
It's not real. It's not real.
“Please— Mom, please please.” He chokes on the words as the acidic taste of iron overwhelms his mouth. He throws up over the side of the bed. A thick puddle seeping into the carpet.
He grasps desperately at her face, shaking it back and forth, golden curls in disarray.
But she won't wake up. She can't wake up.
Another sob grips Tim's too small body. It's violent– burning, as his limbs twitch excruciatingly.
He hasn't planned for this. He doesn't know what to do. His mom. His mom is—
He lets out a low whimper, eyes frantic— searching for something to help her.
He catches sight of himself in the vanity tucked against the wall. Smears of blood– his mothers blood– streak his face. Tim flinches convulsively. He needs it off. He needs to be clean. Janet is always tutting whenever he stains his face with pasta sauce, napkin in hand as she tenderly wipes his face. But she can’t—
She can't help him now.
Tim scrambles off the bed, slamming violently into the bedside table, the pain is dull— almost distant. The krill mug shatters as it hits the ground, shards digging painfully into his socked feet as he stumbles to the en-suite.
Slamming into the doorframe, Tim races to the sink. Turning the water on the hottest setting.
His mom had been so cold.
Unlike her usual casual chilly hands, her face had been stiff with an icy numbness.
Tim scrubs and scrubs and scrubs at his face. The soft skin now itchy and raw with his clawing fingernails pressing in and peeling.
He sucks in pained hiccups, little hands gripping the sink basin to keep himself upright as his eyes lock onto the cabinet.
Tim has always been attentive.
It's how he notices the ajar door of the mirrored cabinet.
He blinks abruptly, eyelashes clumping with tears as he stands on his tip-toes like he has done a hundred times before, reaching up to open the little door. He flinches as a fluorescent orange bottle tumbles out, bouncing down into the sink, the grooves of the lid creating a scratching sound across the porcelain.
It's completely empty.
Devoid of the usual handful of small, circular pills.
Tim knows of certain species of animals that abandon their young. He and Janet had watched a documentary on sharks at the start of summer. Tim had cried when the Hammerhead shark left its small pup all alone. Janet had pulled him into a hug, sharp fingernails scratching his scalp as she reassured him that she loved him. The rhythmic talk of the documentary's narrator informed them that it's simply to ensure their pups survival, a fundamental part of nature. That the babies have ingrained instincts that allow them to survive independently.
But Tim doesn't want to be independent. He wants his mom.
He slides himself into the little gap between the sink and the bathtub, the cold tiles biting into his back as he draws his knees to his chest.
And he cries.