Chapter Text
Tim Drake has known what he was since he was young.
Janet Drake never did anything to try and hide his parentage. Didn’t even try to hide her infidelity from his father. Not that his father seemed to care all that much. They were both distant. But even that wasn’t even that different from before.
Janet hadn’t had to tell Tim about his heritage. It was hard to hide given his…well. His everything. His eyes tended to give things away even when he’s trying to hide. The too-clear blue like a sunny sky with no reprieve. And he’s accidentally drawn the Truth from many people without trying. Just because of his eyes.
His mother could never lie to him. No-one could, actually.
The first time Jack Drake tried to tell Tim about Santa, he’d “Gotten lost” in Tim’s stare and ended up telling Tim about the Santa suit he had in the closet. He’d tried not to look Tim in the eye for the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. But Tim always knew when people were lying. Like a tingle on the back of his tongue.
Janet never lied to Tim. Didn’t even try, except the once. She’d looked at Tim and told him that she didn’t regret having him, but there was a subtle burn at the back of his throat. Like she wasn’t lying. Not quite. But not telling the Truth either.
She pursed her lips and told Tim that she didn’t regret having children. That she liked who he had become. But that every now and again, thinking back to his father…
She hadn’t tried even a half-truth after that.
And Tim doesn’t blame her. Hearing the truth is hard. It’s complicated. It isn’t as simple as a yes or a no. Sometimes, things are a maybe. Sometimes, people lie without even knowing it.
“Aliens don’t exist” Lie, sceptic science teacher. You just don’t know about it yet.
“The party’s absolutely happening” You just don’t know you’re gonna get sick yet.
Apollo is the god of Truth. But he is also the god of prophecy.
A Prophet who only speaks the truth. A prophet unable to lie. One who tells the truth even when it isn’t the truth yet.
A king will sleep with his mother and kill his father. A truth. A prophecy. Not separatable.
And so, Tim isn’t quite prophecy. Doesn’t have the sight like some are cursed with. But he speaks the Truth. Knows when people are lying. Even when they don’t mean to.
It makes life hard sometimes.
What makes life a little harder is the monsters. There aren’t many of them in Gotham who challenge Tim. Most of them hide in corners and in alleys and feed off the misery already present. Take people who won’t be missed (They will be. They’re always missed. There’s always someone. But Tim can’t help. Is only 5-years-old when he sees a Cyclopes snatch a homeless man off the streets).
Some monsters are just trying their best. A Harpy in the diamond district has a habit of pecking her way into one particular jewellery store to stare at the shiny objects, claws twitching like she’s holding herself back. But she always leaves with empty hands and a beak full of bird-seed from the owner who still thinks she’s a random crow. A friendly crow.
Tim finds himself mostly able to fend for himself in Gotham’s landscape. Most monsters take one look at the too-blue eyes and the golden eyelashes like sunrays and scatter like he’s the one with claws and teeth the size of his arm.
But that’s just Gotham.
The moment Tim steps outside of Gotham boundaries, all bets are off.
His first class trip to Metropolis had taught him that. And earned him a long scar on his forearm from a gryphon trying to grab and dash. It’s also the first time Tim ever thought about needing a weapon. Because he does. If he ever wants to step foot outside of Gotham, he needs something to defend himself that isn’t just thrashing until whatever it is lets go.
That was the first time he prayed.
Janet always said that she met his father outside of Gotham. On one of their work trips. Tim thinks it may have been a trip to Greece, actually. Delphi, in particular. And that’s why Janet didn’t ask questions about a baby with golden lashes and too-blue eyes. Especially since Tim started crying every time she tried to lie. Even to herself.
That’s the memory Tim tries to pull from as he sits on the balcony, staring at the smog-covered horizon as the sun rises in shades of red, orange and dusk. The memory of his mother’s truth.
“I need a weapon” Tim states. Isn’t sure if he should be calling this man his father, or his title, any of his epithets. Tim just isn’t sure so he doesn’t call him anything.
He focuses instead.
The truth is that he needs a weapon. The Truth is that he’s dead without one.
He stares at the sunrise until the whole bulb is above the hazy Gotham horizon and only then does he turn away, only a bit disappointed. His fingers bump against something that wasn’t there before and he stares.
A dagger. Something he hadn’t expected, not really. He’d kind of expected a bow. But there’s a dagger next to his hand, pinky brushing against a leather-wrapped grip. Tim looks back at the sun as he takes a breath.
“Thank you”
The truth comes out one way or the other
“Thank you, father”