Disclaimer: Batman does not belong to me - I only interpret and play with the characters.

FYI: Tim is eight at the end of this chapter, Jason is twelve and will be thirteen in August, Dick is fifteen and Bruce is thirty-four. Alfred's age is a mystery to us all.

At seven years old, Timothy Jackson Drake knew a lot of things about life.

He knew that when his parents came home, after months of travel, it was best to smile, have clean clothes on so that he would smell nice and be silent so that his mother would give him that one, special kiss on the head that left his scalp tingling pleasantly.

He knew that getting good grades was important because sometimes his father would forget to be angry when he was talking on the phone, glance down at the white piece of paper and spare a smile.

He knew that it was good to go to bed early because after a certain hour yells and shouts that he couldn't understand would fill the large, expensive house and Tim would be scared.

And lastly, he knew that when they packed their bags, closed the door shut with a bang and rolled out of the driveway that it would be silent for a very, very long time before his mother and father came back.

In the time in between, he liked to read his books, stare at the cartoons on television and watch the Waynes.

There were four people who lived in the mansion next to his house in total. He glimpsed them when he came home from school, walked around the backyard and peered through the fairly thick line of trees that grew between the properties.

There was an older man with white hair and a balding head who usually wore a suit and could sometimes be spotted watering the potted flowers at the side of the building on the marble steps. Tim knew that he worked for the Waynes, but had often seen the two sons of the house hugging or running circles around the man in an overly-familiar fashion that he never would have dared to do with the maids that his parents had employed. Then there was the younger son, whose name Tim was not sure of, with black hair that was so short that it spiked up naturally and had the kind of look when he walked that spoke of a confidence that Tim had observed in the intimidating, older boys in his school. He wasn't sure if he liked that Wayne boy too much, but he looked nice enough when he was talking to his older brother.

That was Dick, Dick Wayne and Tim knew his name because the younger brother called it so loudly when they were running on the grass that even he had heard it from where he sat so far away. The boy was much older than Tim and he looked at his broad shoulders with a sense of awe, wondering if he would ever look like that when he got bigger.

Not that Dick compared to his father at all.

Mr. Wayne, the master of the house, was as huge as a bull and Tim didn't know what you had to eat to grow up that strong. The father fascinated him the most and he would perk up to squint his eyes on the occasions that he came onto the lawn to play with his sons. They would run around with a soccer ball for hours and he would get a crick in his back from staying in the same position for such a long time, but he didn't mind – not really.

That didn't matter. All that mattered was that he could watch and catch the raucous laughter and the panting and the sheer life that came from his neighbors.

He only went inside when the maids called him in for dinner and he ate in complete silence, thinking about the family that lived next to him.

The women might talk about them sometimes too.

"What a charming man that Bruce Wayne is! So handsome-"

"- so young to be a father. He was twenty-seven when he took in the eldest, you know?"

"Men who adopt are so rare. So devoted, too!"

The fact that Mr. Wayne had adopted them had been a strange thing to wrap his mind around the first time he heard it.

They all looked so alike! How could they not be related?

But then, Tim would think about it and realize that the only physical features they really shared were black hair and white skin, although Dick's was pretty tan. He would think about his own father and how they didn't resemble each other at all and decide that looks really weren't that important after all.

There were rare moments when he would stop watching, even without being called in by his minders.

One evening in late November, he noticed that the lights were on in the side of the mansion and Mr. Wayne as well as the youngest son were standing on the steps outside, talking heatedly.

Tim stood in the cold, night air for a while, transfixed. He hadn't known that fathers and sons fought like that.

He had never fought with his own father like that – not once. But then again, this boy was older and Tim didn't know what it felt like to be that old.

All of a sudden, the arguing stopped and the boy that he had been so intimidated by was sobbing openly like a baby and Mr. Wayne wrapped his bear arms around him.

Tim held his breath and, for the first time, hated himself for looking, hated himself for being in the backyard when he should have been inside minding his own, stupid business. In fact, he started to feel angrier the longer they remained there in front of him.

There was a strange, childish urge to run through the leafy barrier between them and yell his lungs out - to tell them that his name was Timothy Jackson Drake, nobody ever hugged him, even when he was crying, and he liked hugs better than anyone else in the whole, wide world. And then, he imagined, Mr. Wayne would catch him when he started sobbing too and he would hold him until morning came if the boy told him to.

But, Tim didn't do that because it was silly, even in his own head, and he knew that Mr. Wayne and his son probably wouldn't care. So, he went back to his bedroom quietly that night and dreamt of a bear that kissed him when he wanted it to.

It was difficult to watch them during the colder months of December and January when there was a thick layer of snow on the ground, but Tim persevered somehow. He got out his binoculars, wrapped himself in a blanket with his stuffed lion, Leopold, and looked through the windows when he really couldn't stand the temperature anymore.

When Christmas came, his parents arrived with it, if only for a brief amount of time, and he almost wished that they hadn't.

The pair spent the entire holiday in what Tim called their 'silly mood' talking weirdly in loud tones and then low ones, going from insanely happy to ridiculously depressed in a matter of seconds and being clumsy in general, tripping over the carpets, accidentally hitting Tim in the head with an elbow and knocking over the tree after a round of eggnog. Tim didn't understand why they got that way or why they would want to, but he didn't like it and he wished Leopold could have talked so that he could tell him all about it.

Through March and April, Tim got nervous about his secret hobby. There were times where the hairs stood up on the back of his neck and he was sure that he had been caught. Tall Dick, walking around by himself, would suddenly stop and turn to stare unseeingly into the small patch of forest, their eyes would almost meet and he would flee to hide like a frightened rabbit.

They couldn't know that he looked - that would be the worst thing.

It would have been so embarrassing that he couldn't have gotten out of bed ever again.

Tim almost got the shock of his life when Bruce Wayne rang his doorbell.

Maria came to him first as he was doodling on his homework.

"Mr. Wayne is here. He wants to talk to you."

He thought that his heart might beat out of his chest as took his time going down the staircase.

Sure enough, the man was there in the doorway, waiting for him.

"Hello, Tim," he said with a warm smile.

"H-hello," Tim said back unsurely, his head tilted all the way back to stare up at him.

"Your parents aren't here, are they?"

Disappointment gutted him in a single instant. He wasn't there for Tim - and, why should he have been?

"They aren't, sir," he replied, remembering his manners.

Mr. Wayne appeared to be immensely sad for a moment.

"Well, I just wanted to ask if you might want to come over and paint some eggs with us, seeing as it is Easter and all."

A fierce burst of joy lit up the pit of his stomach before it dulled.

Go? He couldn't go.

He didn't want to ruin the nice idea that he had held ever since he had been properly introduced by his father to Mr. Wayne at the grocery store when he was five.

The idea that the Waynes might like him if they got to know him better.

And, that wasn't reality.

The reality was that, if he ever got that chance, he would ruin it and they wouldn't like him, even if he told them everything - from which Pokemon was his favorite to the fact that the pungent aroma of brandy made him sick.

He refused to watch that happen.

"And, we won't just be sitting around with eggs all day either...I mean, that would be boring, right? We're doing other things too," Mr. Wayne said hurriedly, noticing Tim's expression. "The boys have all kinds of games planned-"

"I think I'll stay here, sir," Tim said quietly. "But, thank you very much for asking."

Mr. Wayne seemed to be at a loss for something to say. Tim was surprised when the man crouched down to his eye-level and spoke softly in his deep voice.

"Are you sure? I don't think that your parents would be upset if you came over for a little while, if that's what's bothering you."

And, he was so close that Tim could smell his cologne and it was so comforting that he wanted to go away with him forever, but he knew that he couldn't.

"I know they won't, Mr. Wayne. I just don't feel like going anywhere today."

Mr. Wayne's dark, blue eyes were sympathetic and he tried to memorize the image of them, looking at him. He stood up to leave and Tim felt a little like a part of him was dying.

"Some other time then."

The seven year old nodded fervently although he knew that he would say 'no' again.

"Happy Easter, Tim."

"Happy Easter, sir."

April passed by and he had another visitor on his doorstep in the middle of May.

"Hey," the youngest Wayne, one of the boys that he had been spying on for over a year, said to him.

Tim couldn't say anything - he really couldn't. The twelve-year-old scratched his ear and sighed, looking down at the seven-year-old and probably wondering why he looked so terrified.

"So, anyways, we've got an indoor, swimming pool -"

He gestured awkwardly towards the mansion.

"- because we're super rich and stuff and Dick - that's my bro' - and I were in there the other day and we thought that we would play some good, ol' Marc-o-Polo, but then there was this huge problem!"

He opened his arms dramatically wide to emphasize how big the dilemma was and Tim had the faint impression that he was being insincere and felt a little mocked.

"You can't play with just two people! So, Dick says to me -"

"Yes, you can," Tim interrupted, not knowing why because normally he wouldn't have dared.

The boy paused, startled, and then frowned.

"No, you can't."

"Of course, you can. You need one person to be Marco and one person -"

"You just can't, okay?" he got out between gritted teeth.

And, Tim shut up then because he wasn't stupid.

"Listen, do you want to swim with us or not?"

Tim blinked twice.

"No, thank you."

The other boy blinked rapidly as well and straightened up from where he was hunched over, talking to Tim.

"Well then, great...fantastic even. Have a swell day, kid," he said before stomping off in a way that made Tim think that he didn't really mean it.

Two weeks later, the other Wayne boy came and Tim wondered if they were playing a practical joke on him.

"How are you doing, Tim?" Dick asked with an energy and a genuine friendliness that his brother had lacked.

"Fine," Tim replied immediately, not as fazed as he had been before.

"My adorable, little brother wants me to tell you that he can't control his temper and that he's terribly sorry if he snapped at you," he announced cheerfully.

Tim couldn't help smiling. Dick was so charismatic that he could put anyone in a better mood.

"And, I'm here to tell you that Jason -"

Tim sounded out the name of the temperamental boy in his head and liked it.

" - is out of the house for the afternoon and that I'm getting awfully lonely because there's no one around to play 'Super Mario' with me."

Panic struck him and he grimaced.

"I have...I've got homework to do."

Dick winked at him conspiratorially.

"So do I, but nobody has to know about that, do they?"

Tim felt really horrible and wished that he hadn't opened the door when the Wayne rang the bell.

"I-I can't. I just can't."

Dick's grin faltered.

"...I guess you don't have to. I mean, it's fine if you're not up to it."

"I'm...um...not."

Nobody came after that and Tim told himself that he liked that things had gone back to the way they were.

Summer came and his parents were still gone.

They were in Paris and, when Tim turned eight, he still felt seven somehow because he had heard all about the other kids in his class having big birthday parties and he didn't believe that he had gotten older when he was eating a neon-green cake all by himself in the middle of July.

He wondered if the next school year would be the same as the last and hoped that eight was a lucky number.