Triggers: Body snatching, mild blood, major character death (offscreen)

Day 5: Insecurities | Identity Reveal | Keeping Up With The Waynes AU

"You're not my son," Dana said. Her aching hands curled into a fist as she leaned on the table, arms braced, all her focus on the thing wearing her son's tired face. Shards of glass dug into her throat. "I don't know who you are – what you are - but you're not my Timothy."

Tim's body language shifted. His shoulders straightened, the weight of duty, of guilt dropping away. His grey eyes sharpened, cutting into her like razor wire. "Your Timothy?" he echoed, filling the room with angles and edges as they dismembered the soft warmth in his voice.

"Where is he?" she asked, the pounding of her heart lifting the room around her in a wash of pale grey. Her fingers curled around the handle of her steak knife, a desperate, thoughtless gesture that gave her no comfort and even less leverage.

"Gone."

The weight of his calm voice crushed her chest like a sledgehammer, choking the breath from her lungs as her knife clattered onto the table. A metallic taste bloomed in her mouth. There went another filling.

Silence stretched between them as she tried to keep up with the spinning world around her. "Why?" she asked at last, when she was just composed enough to hold her voice together with spit and raw, trembling vocal cords.

The chill in his gaze cut to her marrow as Tim's head tilted-

No. Not Tim. Tim could be cold- apathetic, even- on his worst days. But he was never callus, never thoughtfully cruel.

"To further my own ends. To remove a bishop from the board. To grant him relief from the misery of a desolate existence. Does it truly matter? He is gone. Nothing will change that."

Something in her wavered its last, and broke. The pounding in her chest sped up. The edges of her vision spun. The coppery taste of blood bloomed between her teeth. "I think you should leave."

"And why is that?" he asked, the click of his teeth tensing her shoulders like a rubberband holding together a pack of cards.

She forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on Tim's husk. Blood from her lip trickled down her chin. "You're not my son. I will not entertain you further."

"He was never your son," he said. "He is no more your blood than I. Had you been more observant, you would never have joined the Drake household. Your bond is nothing more than a farce held together by social mores and the sharing of resources.

The sharp words slid around her. She was already in pieces. There were no targets left intact to hit. "Leave," she repeated, drawing herself up.

The chill in his eyes drained away. "Or what?" he asked, the edges worn away, the softness wrapping around her, strangling her in its ersatz sincerity. "You'll ground me?"

She almost broke, then. Dana closed her eyes. Burning salt built behind her eyes. Her nails splayed, digging into the hardwood table. One nail snapped with a quiet clip. "Yes," she said, burning the wrinkles from her voice with the last of her iron-hot will.

A rolling laugh swelled around her. Too smooth, too easy, too cold and neat to be Tim's. "Very well. You amuse me." He stood. "You intrigue me, Miss. Winters. Were I not short on time, our conversation would be illuminating for the both of us."

Not daring to speak, she pressed her lips together, focusing on the broken glass in her throat. Questions swirled in the spreading hollow of her chest. He was baiting her. Tim's body circled the table, and before she could stop it, his hand cupped her cheek tenderly. "If you wish to keep your life, you will not speak of this to anyone."

Nausea burned in her stomach. Her nails bit into her palm as her instincts screamed at her not to trust the man who had murdered her son.

"OK," she said, forcing the words out through bloodstained, shaky teeth, "Ok."

His thumb brushed the tear building on her eyelids. Then he was gone, moving with a terse, stringent stride she had never seen on Tim before. She stood, numb, reeling, until the low roar of the engine from that horrible motorcycle Tim had loved so fade into the distance. Standing, she gathered the dishes, her body moving almost without thought. The dishes clattered on each other as her shaky hands stacked them. Her breath came in swift gasps. Neither of them had even touched the lasagna.

Something slipped from her grasp and shattered on the tile floor. She broke with it.