Chapter Text
Tim trembles as his feet shuffle across the slick, shiny floor. The line moves sluggishly, children scooting ahead bit by bit. Most of the kids are accompanied by their parents or a nanny at least. Tim is alone.
He's always alone.
Tim looks over toward where his parents are sipping champagne and chuckling at something one of the board members of Wayne Enterprises has apparently just said. They're wearing their fake smiles and, if he could hear them, Tim would bet that would be their fake laughs too. Everything about all of the adults at these sorts of things are always phony. Mr. Delmondt is slinging an arm around his wife's waist but he keeps stealing glances at his assistant's dress. According to Tim's mother, they're having an affair and Mrs. Delmondt knows about it. Mr. and Mrs. Caufield stroll through the party arm in arm, but they're secretly filing for divorce. His dad claims that they're going to have to keep up the little charade until the Caufield's business merger. The Bradley boys are on their best behavior, everyone pinching their cherub cheeks and fawning over how well-mannered the trio are. Tim sees the brothers routinely pummeling other kids on the playground. Milton DiMonico, the owner of a big chain of luxury hotels, loudly turns down an offered glass of wine. There was an, "incident", Tim's parents called it, involving Milton and a filth of whiskey and one of his hotel pools. It was the last straw in a string of other "incidents". If he didn't clean up his act, he was going to lose his family, and the business. The man has been an outspoken advocate of sobriety and teaches the public about the dangers of alcoholism, even hosting retreats and seminars at his hotels for those suffering from the addiction. All the while, Milton has been sneaking gulps from a flask in the bathroom every 15 minutes or so. Tim saw it poking out from his jacket pocket earlier, and every time Mr. DiMonico returns to the main room, his cheeks are a little more flushed. Tim watches his dad drink enough to know what is going on. Everything and everyone is an act. And Tim is tired of performing.
His parents catch his wandering eye and offer a little wave. He returns the empty gesture on instinct. Had no one been next to them to notice, would his mom and dad have even looked his way?
The line moves forward again and Tim reaches out on each side to grip-ungrip-grip the velvet rope corralling the children. He doesn't exactly want to be doing this. He doesn't want to be here at all. His parents and Tim have so little time together during the holiday season and he hates wasting it on galas and events where they're basically strangers once they cross the threshold - of course, unless his parents want to introduce Tim to someone new or show off their straight A student. Not that they do a whole lot together as a family, but this is just another thing in the way. Sometimes, his mother will put on a holiday record while she examines articles about the Drakes in travel and business magazines in the sitting room. If he needs more space than just his office, Tim's father will work, floating between the coffee table, couch, and desk. Tim likes to curl up in the corner of said couch - or in the armchair if he's in the way - and read or finish schoolwork. There's a nice roaring crackle coming from the fireplace and Tim makes them all hot chocolate, with brandy or rum for his parents. Once, after several cups of cocoa, his mother and father had slow danced to Sinatra across the carpet. Another year, Tim had noticed a mathematical error in some of his father's paperwork. Normally, if Tim got involved in his dad's business, Jack Drake would get irritated - even though the man wanted his son to take over one day so that didn't make sense at all to Tim. This time, however, Jack lifted Tim onto his shoulders, parading around the sofa and shout-singing along to "Auld Lang Syne", saying that Tim just saved Christmas. Mostly, though, it's just quiet, save the music. Bing Crosby will croon and Tim will stop to stare at the chunky snowflakes falling from behind the wide ceiling-to-floor windows.
As far as Tim is concerned, it's perfect.
A kid behind him bumps Tim's shoulder and he realizes that there is now an empty gap in front of him. Tim begrudgingly trudges forward.
He isn't afraid of Santa Clause. His parents never participated in that indulgent childhood farce. Tim is expected to behave and be good because he is told to do so, not because some jolly mythical elf will give him gifts. Tim's father says that offering children rewards for such things breeds a selfish mentality. The world is not fair and people don't give you anything just because you are "nice".
Tim tried to believe, if only for a little while. Even though his parents never celebrated St. Nick, the boy still heard about the man at school and saw him on television and movies. In kindergarten, his class had written letters to the big man. Well, they mostly drew pictures and Mrs. Ludwig helped with the spelling. Tim wrote his all by himself, thank you very much. They even put them in a little mailbox on their teacher's desk and Mrs. Ludwig promised to send them off to the North Pole. They were supposed to write what they wanted for Christmas. Tim's was only one sentence long.
I want mommy and daddy home for Christmas.
They'd been in Egypt through New Year's.
He wrote again in first grade.
Please let mom and dad be home for Christmas.
And in second.
Please, if you are real at all, can you bring my parents home for Christmas?
He hadn't really truly believed in the mythological man, but boy had he wanted to. Boy had he tried.
He is only in line now to please his parents. It might look odd if he is the only child his age or younger that doesn't sit on Santa's lap. Plus, they want the photo op. The press has been snapping shots all night of the doe eyed kids, and some of the criers. They seem more focused on Santa than the rest of the event for some reason. Some of the grown ups watch the man in red too, cupping hands over their mouths and giggling or cooing. A few women have tried to jump the rope to sit on Santa's lap, winking or blowing kisses at St. Nick as they are ushered away. Tim doesn't know what is so special about him. He obviously can't be the actual Santa Clause because, yeah, he doesn't exist. And if he did, Tim saw another bearded, round bellied elf ringing a bell by the storefront not five minutes before they arrived at the party. After looking at all of the evidence, like multiple Santas at the same time, traveling the globe in one night, parents not questioning mysterious gifts showing up under their tree from a stranger, and more, Tim is pretty confident that he would have figured out the whole Santa conspiracy even if his parents had gone along with it. Once, at school, he asked different kids what kind and color of wrapping paper had "Santa" used for their presents. Everyone had different answers. Tim had been about to further investigate when his teacher stepped in, steering the conversation in another direction.
Another few steps forward and Tim is the next in line. He rubs his hands together at his stomach. He doesn't want to have to pretend in front of all of these people. He doesn't want to sit on some stranger's lap when he hasn't sat on anyone's lap since he was a toddler. He doesn't want some grown up touching him to pick him up or pat his back, like Tim has been watching this Santa do all evening.
He doesn't want this.
"You're up, kiddo."
Tim blinks up a the too-bright faced elf in a short green dress. Her grin is wide and toothy and it only makes Tim more nervous. She reaches out to take Tim's hand and lead him to the big guy in the chair, like she has been with all the others. Tim smiles back, hopes it looks polite, and instead turns toward Santa. She still walks beside him the few yards, hand hovering behind his shoulder as if to help guide the boy to the blatantly red and chubby guy right in front of them. When they reach him, she stands awkwardly behind Tim, moving her arms in a way that makes Tim think she is trying to debate picking him up to put on Santa's lap or not. Out of the corner of his eye, because Tim won't look directly at the man, he sees Santa shake his head just slightly.
"Have fun," she sing-songs and waves before turning back around.
And then Tim is left alone, at the feet of the stranger on the throne.
"Well, hi there," Santa leans forward a little, "what's your name?"
Tim shuffles his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides to keep from crossing his arms.
"Tim, Timothy Drake, sir."
"No need to call me sir," Santa smiles and it's warm and genuine and actually makes Tim take a step back, "but you can if you like. You can call me whatever you want. Santa, St. Nick -"
"I know you're not Santa," Tim mumbles and then bites his cheek because that's rude.
"Hmm?" The man seems more pleasantly curious than offended.
"Because you're not real, or, I mean, Santa isn't."
"And who told you that?" Santa lifts an eyebrow.
"My mom and dad when I was six," Tim says to the floor, "but I figured it out too. Not possible. Too many houses to deliver to, been alive for too long, the different wrapping papers, the -"
"Well aren't you a little detective," Santa chuckles and he somehow still isn't upset.
"Hey," Tim's head snaps up before he can stop himself, "that's what I want to - I - never mind."
"You can tell me, Tim," the man urges softly.
"I - I want to be a detective, when I grow up," Tim frowns when the stranger's smile brightens. "I mean, I did, when I was little."
"You still are little, Tim."
"No I'm not," Tim bristles, "I'm almost in fourth grade. And I get to stay home all by myself and be man of the house."
"My mistake," Santa lifts his hands in surrender, but there is something in his eyes now that has Tim feeling sort of like something under a microscope.
"I'm going to run Drake Industries," Tim nods, "like my mom and dad."
"That's a very good goal," he nods too, in time with Tim because Tim is still apparently doing it, "really impressive. But you should also always do what you want to do, okay?"
Tim shrugs and Santa thankfully doesn't push him.
"So, Tim," the stranger sets his hands on his knees, "did you have something you wanted for Christmas?"
Tim's brow furrows.
"But you're not real."
"I'm sitting right here talking to you," Santa gestures between the pair of them, "and I'm curious."
"So am I. How do other kids not figure this out?" Tim crosses his arms. "Like, what if I asked you for a new skateboard, but I never told my parents I wanted one. So they don't know to buy it for me and say its from Santa. Then, I don't get a skateboard. Am I supposed to think I've been too naughty? Or is that when I figure it out by myself? How does it work? Or, what if I asked you for dog? Or like a fancy car? Those aren't even things Santa could give a kid if he was real."
"You're very," Santa pauses, "inquisitive."
"Did you say that because you don't think I'd know what it means? I do. I've been reading the dictionary for my bedtime stories since I was old enough to read it myself. Before that, Dad would give me a new word every night, when he was home. And, did you mean it in a nice way? People stay stuff that like and they don't really mean it in a nice way."
Santa chuckles.
"I meant it in a nice way, promise."
"People usually don't like all my questions." Tim cocks his head.
"What people?" The man rubs his chin, glancing behind the boy.
"Grown up people," Tim shrugs. "Teachers, mom, dad, especially the dentist. And especially especially Mr. Greenberg because he gets stuff wrong sometimes and I'm not supposed to tell him so in front of class anymore."
"Questions are good," Santa's eyes find something in the crowd but quickly move back to Tim, "they help us learn and grow. And find out when something isn't right," his gaze wanders again and Tim tries to follow it but only sees his parents.
"I'm sorry," Tim notices the stagnant line of eager kids, "I'm hogging you, and I don't even believe in you so that's not fair."
"You're fine, Tim," Santa moves slowly to place a hand on his shoulder, withdrawing the arm when Tim tenses.
"I usually don't talk this much, sorry," Tim turns back to him, "Well, I do, but not to grown ups. I mean, I'm not supposed to. It's not polite. I don't know why I'm -"
"Tim," Santa holds up his hands, "it's okay, really. I'm enjoying our conversation, honest. You're a bright and kind boy. But, you are correct. There is a long line. And, I believe, Mr. Wayne is due to give a closing speech soon." He clears his throat. "So, why don't you tell me what you would want for Christmas, if you did believe in Santa?"
"Why?" Tim squints suspiciously.
"Because you are a very interesting kid," Santa nods, "and I am honestly curious what a boy with your intelligence and good heart would want. Really. If you don't tell me, I'm just going to be thinking about it and making guesses in my head for the rest of the night."
Tim scuffs his shoes against the floor, checking around them that the coast is clear.
"It - it's not - something - like a toy or -"
"That's alright."
Tim rubs his elbow with one hand, shoving the other in his pocket. He eyes the crowd again.
"My parents -" Tim whispers it in one small puff of breath, "- to be with my family for Christmas."
He doesn't look at Santa when he says it. In fact, he doesn't look at the man again. The words are barely out and Tim is turning on his heel, hurrying off to the side until he is deep in the thick of the crowd.
About thirty minute later, his parents pull him away from the food table to leave. It's right smack in the middle of Mr. Wayne's speech about the charity that this party is benefiting but the Drakes want to beat the traffic. As Tim is hustled out the door, he spares on last longing look over to the throne. Santa isn't there.