Chapter Text
Timothy Jackson Drake is getting a little bit frustrated.
He had things to do today, but instead he’s tied up in a dingy Gotham warehouse while a hulking man stands over him, waving a lead pipe around in an intimidating manner. “Listen here, kiddo,” the big man growls.
The man’s breath is also intimidating, frankly, as are the periodic grunts issuing from the henchmen crowded into the room.
“Your parents-” and here he jabs the pipe at Tim for emphasis- “’Ave pulled a fast one over me. Now, I don’t enjoy threatening little kids, but I’m making an exception for your piece-a-shit parents.”
“I feel so extremely special,” says Tim under his breath, even though he knows it’s a terrible idea. Also, he’s not little, he’s thirteen, fuck you very much.
The man stares at him for a second before he winds up with the lead pipe and slams it into Tim’s stomach. The goons giggle. Tim keens, a thready, breathless sound and folds in two. A savage, pounding ache thrums through his belly. “That was a warning, kid. Shut the fuck up and sit tight while I ‘ave a little chat wiv your folks.”
And Tim really should have expected that, because this man with the unpleasant breath and lead pipe is named Callum O’Gowan, and he runs the Irish mafia in Gotham. Boss O’Gowan fed a man his own ear last week, so yeah, mouthing off is not the smartest impulse Tim’s ever given into.
As Tim tries desperately to suck in breaths and push back tears because he’ll be fucked before he cries in front of these asswipes, he misses Boss O’Gowan dialing his parents. He misses his dad picking up. He does not miss the beginning of O’Gowan’s ransom speech, because the man drops into a growl so rough it’s frankly ridiculous. Tim is a little embarrassed for him and wonders if O’Gowan thinks it sounds more intimidating. “Hello, Mr. Drake.”
“Yeah, hi, hello. Isn’t this Timothy’s phone? Can you put Timothy on?” Jack sounds mildly confused.
“Oh yes, it’s Timothy’s phone.” A smile slides across O’Gowan’s face.
There was a moment of silence. “Okay…” says Jack, even more befuddled, “Does Timothy need anything?”
“In a way,” says O’Gowan.
“Right, well, um, I hate to rush you, but Janet and I are at the embassy right now and really need to get back to it, so if you don’t mind telling me what it is, that’d be great!”
O’Gowan huffs. “Listen up, motherfucker. You and your whore wife sold me a dud artifact, so now I’ve got something precious of yours ‘ere with me instead.”
And Tim is suddenly firmly and deeply screwed. Because shit. He’d even go so far as fuck.
On the other side of the phone, there’s the sound of a scuffle and then Janet’s sharp voice is crackling over the line. “What is it? What have you got? Don’t tell me it’s the Pompeii casts.”
O’Gowan blinked at his goons, who blinked back. “No, it’s- “
“Oh my god, not the Olmec jade mask.”
O’Gowan was properly confused now. “No! I’ve got your stupid little brat here! Timothy? Ring a bell?”
“Oh, it’s Timothy,” says Janet to Jack, and even the crackling of the phone can’t mask the relief in her tone.
There is whispering among the goons. O’Gowan turns to Tim, an expression of bewilderment and dawning fury smeared across his unattractive visage. Tim stares back defiantly and quashes down any fear he feels. He refuses to let O’Gowan, a loser as much as a Gotham mafia boss can be, to see even a flicker of intimidation. The man fakes his British accent, for God’s sake; everyone knows he’s Bowery born-and-bred.
O’Gowan narrows his eyes.
Jack’s voice comes back through the phone. “We don’t negotiate with kidnappers, but I’d like to say I am frankly offended that you would go so far as to steal a child. Honestly, it’s gauche.”
O’Gowan gapes and his voice slides out of the dumb growl. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, stealing a child. And for what?”
There is a long pause.
“No, really,” says Jack, “Why’d you take him? You said something about a relic we found for you?”
“Y- yeah,” says O’Gowan, attempting to regain his balance, “A necklace? From Ireland? I bought it last November.”
“Oh, yes!” Jack says, pleased, “I remember that purchase! A Celtic torc- quite a lovely example of 90 B.C. copper artistry.”
“More like modern tosh,” growls O’Gowan, clearly gaining his confidence back, “Got it appraised last week, didn’t I? My man tells me it’s artificially weathered and obviously shaped with anachronistic tools. ‘Pliers’ was the word he used, I b’lieve.”
Tim scowls. He’d in fact used a very high-end crimping tool, fuck you very much.
Janet had stolen the phone from Jack again. “The cheek! Good Lord! To insinuate we’d sell you anything but the real item! Frankly, sir, we’re deeply offended. If you didn’t like the item, just inform us and we will happily buy it back. I mean, really! There was no need for this whole to-do.”
O’Gowan is now completely off his stride. “I- That’s not-“ He made a valiant attempt to rally, drawing himself up. “You’ve offended me and mine, so- so now your blood is forfeit. I’m… I’m going to take Timothy’s ear.”
He stops, looking embarrassed. Janet’s scoff is loud, insulting, and very violent. “Your refund will deposit in the same bank account you paid us from. Please give the torc to Timothy and return him to the manor; he’ll know where to file it.” There was a moment of silence. “Have a nice day,” she adds and then hangs up.
O’Gowan stares at the phone in his hand. The goons are silent.
He turns slowly towards Tim, eye twitching.
~~~
Tim stumbles through the door of Drake Manor, shutting the door with one bloody hand, the other clutching the copper torc.
He drifts through the rooms in a daze, the right side of his head aching and burning. He reaches the upstairs bathroom and pauses on the threshold, shutting his eyes. He needs to look, to treat it, but he is a little scared.
What if O’Gowan really had taken the whole ear? What if Tim opens his eyes to see a lopsided head, a bloody hole where his ear had once been?
Tim could tell O’Gowan’s heart hadn’t been totally in it. He’d been sort of perfunctory after he’d gotten most of his frustration out via the medium of hammer and Tim’s fingers. He’d gone at Tim’s ear with a pair of pliers and a scalpel.
Tim had screamed as a matter of course, but O’Gowan had just directed a goon to break Tim’s nose and kept sawing. Tim hadn’t gotten a look at the bits he’d cut off, much less been allowed to keep one, which, while not a priority, had been salt in the wound. Metaphorically.
Tim’s dentist let him keep the tonsil he’d had removed last spring.
Tim clenches his fists, the torc digging into his palm, and forces himself through the door.
He opens his eyes.
Well, fuck.
It’s a good thing it’s the weekend.
~~~
“Timothy,” says his English teacher.
“Yes, Mr. Prestley?” says Tim politely.
“Timothy, you’re dripping,” says Mr. Prestley, eyes wide.
Tim looks down hastily and tries to scrub away the flecks that had landed on his desk with his sleeve, but only really succeeded in smearing it across his test paper. “Sorry,” he says.
“Timothy, that’s blood.” Mr. Prestley has gone an interesting shade of light green.
Tim ducks his head. “Yeah, I know, sorry. It stains something awful, but maybe some Lysol-“
“Cold water,” chimes in his classmate Megan, returning from depositing her test on Mr. Prestley’s desk, “Give it a soak and throw it in the laundry. Works like a charm. For fresh blood on fabric, at least.”
A few heads scattered around the classroom nod encouragingly, all girls. The boys look kind of grossed out. “Thanks, Megan,” says Tim, because it actually is a pretty useful tip, even if he already knew it. Also, Megan is kind of hot.
Mr. Prestley shakes his head quickly. “No, no, no, that’s really not the issue here. Timothy, you’re dripping blood from your head. Please head to the nurse’s office immediately.”
Tim gestures at his desk. “I haven’t finished my test, Mr. Prestley.”
“Excused!” Mr. Prestley practically yelps. “You’re excused! Now please, please go to the nurse’s office now, Timothy.”
Tim shrugs and gathers his stuff. “Okay. Thanks, Mr. Prestley.”
As he steps out into the hallway, he catches a last glimpse of Mr. Prestley slumped over his desk, glasses on the desk in front of him and palms of his hands pressed against his eyes. Tim feels a little bad for disturbing the man so much, but getting out of English early and being excused from a whole unit test is a nifty deal, so Tim is glad he pushed.
He prods at the thick bandage wrapped around his ear as he trudges towards the nurse’s office. He’d wrapped it pretty well and taken a number of painkillers, but clearly it must have resumed bleeding because he can feel it dripping down the side of his neck, now that he’s paying attention.
The nurse blanches when she sees him. She hustles him through sign-in and immediately starts unraveling the bandage. Tim breathes in as deeply and quietly as he can when she tugs the final layer off, pulling at the raw flesh there, but any noise he might make is drowned out by the nurse’s exclamation. “Oh my God! What happened to you?”
Tim winces. He knows it looks pretty bad. O’Gowan carved a section out of the top half of his ear, leaving Tim with an almost cartoonish U-shaped notch in his ear about an inch wide. Tim knows there’s no way it’ll ever heal up completely, but maybe he’ll be able to pull off a sort of swashbuckling adventurer look. Eventually.
The nurse had noticed his nose by now, and when she began clucking over that and Tim lifted his hand to wave her off, she caught sight of the lumpy bandage encasing his fingers and then she was off and running. Her fussing and fluttering brings the front desk ladies in as well, and soon Tim is surrounded by a cloud of tissues and nervous exclamations and worried demands to speak to his parents. “Ladies, ladies, please,” says Tim, smirking, “One at a time.”
The office lady who stocks the lollipop drawer and has an astonishing collection of hats featuring taxidermied birds, narrows her eyes at him. “Careful, Mr. Drake.”
Tim sends her a cheeky grin but refrains from winking. Old ladies love slightly-but-not-excessively disreputable teen boys and Tim can walk that particular tightrope like a Flying Grayson. The nurse starts to re-splint his fingers, which is good because Tim followed a YouTube tutorial to do the original ones. “Mr. Drake,” says Lollipop Lady, “Where in the world did you get these injuries from?”
Tim hesitates. He could, theoretically, report his kidnapping. He probably already would have, if it had been a boring snatch-and-grab. Unfortunately, not only has it been about three days since Tim stumbled through the doors of Drake Manor, but a) his kidnapper is an extremely dangerous mob boss who would probably consider setting the GCPD on him to be a declaration of war, b) his parents are still out of the country and can't fight a war for him, and c) the reason for his kidnapping is that Tim has been actively and perpetually committing the crime of manufacturing and selling false antiquities for over three years in order to shield his parents from international prosecution for cultural heritage theft.
Oh, yes, and d) Tim has no plans to stop, so being found out via kidnapping investigation would suck.
Before Tim can work out a good excuse, a small cough sounds by the door. The nurse and office ladies wheel around.
Jason Todd, 5’0” tenth grader, grand prize winner of this year’s Gotham Academy Essay Contest, and Robin numero dos, stands in the doorway.
Great.