Alfred forces his horse to ride faster, rushing through the fields and scorched grounds that once led to the Manor. His old heart beating violently against his chest as he is finally able to see the building rising proudly in the horizon.
He hadn't been able to believe the rumors of young Master Timothy's return when he first heard them.
He had seen the fire, the Manor fall and crack and disappear among the flames, the scent of burnt flesh and blood and death spreading in the air until there was no oxygen to breathe that did not leave that telltale metallic after taste on the back of his throat.
The thought that his sweet Young Master had been able to survive the wreckage was ludicrous. The boy was too frail, too delicate to be able to survive such savagery.
The old man's heart stops inside his chest, however, as he finally reaches the Manor - a perfect replica, down to the cracks in the brickwork and stains on the marble staircase - and sees the tall, broad man regally opening the door for him, face expressionless, back straight.
"Welcome to Drake Manor, Mr. Pennyworth, we've been expecting you," he greets, his voice a throaty purr that, Alfred thinks, must make him quite popular with the ladies. "Young Master Timothy is in the reading room. Please, allow me to escort you."
Alfred nods; mouth tightening as the young man starts walking inside the Manor, a soft scowl on his face that counteracts his sensual voice.
The old Englishman is not sure if this man can be a proper caretaker for Young Master Timothy - if the lord he is about to meet is his Young Master Timothy at all - and whether he will be forced into de displeasing duty of removing this mysterious gentleman from the Manor.
The boy sitting in Master Jack's cream-colored Berger is definitely not the same boy that used to quietly sit by his side in the kitchen, intelligent eyes examining each and every one of his movements as he baked sweets for the family, shyly tugging at his sleeves whenever he wanted to ask questions.
Not this broken boy with the black and blue bruises covering most of his face and the bandaged arms that shakily holds the quill as he tries to write, a wince of pain whenever his elbow touches the mahogany desk in front of him.
"Young Master," the young butler calls. "Mr. Pennyworth is here."
Alfred feels his heart constrict when young Master Timothy closes his only visible eye, a soft sight leaving his dry, broken lips before he places the quill neatly on the inkwell and grasps for his cane.
What happens next, Alfred will not be able to describe in words.
Because Young Master Timothy suddenly seems to shift and coil before his very eyes, his spine instantly straightening as he stands and his face loses the insecurity and ache that marked it to turn regal and beautiful, his steps are confident and steady as he makes his way towards the old Englishman, his smile reserved and dazzling at the same time.
"It is good to see you in such a good health, Alfred," he says, his voice clear, strong, yet still a hint nervous, soft. "I have missed you."
Alfred feels a small smile tug his lips, his right hand instantly flying to rest on his chest as he bows.
"Likewise, Young Master Timothy," he says reverently. "I am gratified to see you returned home."
Young Master Timothy's cheeks color gently and Alfred cannot hold the pride bursting inside of him at the sight.
The rightful Master of the House has returned.
He will serve him as he did his parents.
…
Jason is laying against the sand, feeling how his blood spreads around him and is sucked immediately into the desert.
It is over and he knows it.
He is going to die, fighting a war he did not start, fighting for a county that couldn't care less about him.
He sighs, closing his eyes against the scorching sunlight.
"You don't want to die," a voice whispers from above and a mercifully cool shadow falls over him, freezing cold fingers caressing his forehead. "Don't you?"
He opens his eyes weakly, squinting as he can see two figures leaning over him; the smaller one is caressing his skin with the wonderfully cool hands while the other looms protectively over them both.
"He is dying rather quickly, Young Master," the taller man says, his voice rumbling through the air, his displeasure evident.
"If I want him to live you will make it so," the smaller form hisses, his only visible eye narrowed. "Are we clear?"
Jason closes his eyes, feeling their weight pulling him downwards. He grows calm and scared at the same time, in an indescribable combination of adrenaline and cold that makes his head swoon.
"I want to live," he manages to whisper, knowing there is a tear rolling down his cheek.
The smaller figure laughs.
"You heard him, Bruce," he says, his small, cool hands playing with his blood matted hair.
The bigger man laughs, kneeling by his side.
"Are you ready to pay the price for this man, Young Master? A life is a lot of work," he purrs, allowing his nose to nuzzle the smaller figure's dark hair.
The teen looks at the man, an eyebrow raised elegantly.
Jason loses consciousness before he can hear the soft reply.
….
Dick huddles in a corner, hiding his head between his knees and his hands fisted tightly on his greasy black hair as he tries to stop his body from trembling.
Every inch of his skin seems to be on fire, the multiple gashes and cuts on his back are stinging, hot… Infected.
The fingernails on his left hand are growing, soon they will be back to the way they were before he was sold to Bedlam - and he can't blame the people at the circus, he didn't have any parents and no means to produce funds, they needed to eat after all - but the doctors have tortured him for ten years, the sick smell of cleaning alcohol and ammonia clings to his yellowish skin and he wants to go home so very much, even if he doesn't know where home is any longer, he is sure Bedlam is not it.
A low whine leaves his throat as he hears Dr. Fischetti enter the room, the soles of his shoes clacking against the cold stone floor.
"Are you sure you won't wait for the subject to be cleaned? The smell is overpowering," the good doctor asks and Dick can distinctly hear softer, almost silent footsteps following the doctor's, pace calm and relaxed.
"I do not care about the smell, Doctor," a soft, melodious voice replies, forcing Dick's eyes to open and to peek through his bony knees.
"Please, Young Master, this is a dangerous place for you," the lord's butler urges, following his master.
A musical laugh is his reply.
"I have you to protect me, Bruce," the lord grins. "Plus the Last Flying Grayson would never hurt me."
The words force Dick's head to snap up, his yellowish eyes wide. In front of him, the butler is approaching him, thick, strong fingers gently pulling his lower eyelid down, caressing his sallow cheekbone and neck.
Dick is shocked to realize the touch does not scorch his skin as the doctor's does; it doesn't make him feel like a wild animal under the continuous scrutiny.
He shivers.
"Liver failure," the butler mutters, dark blue eyes piercing. "This man is dying, young Master."
The lord smiles, his face becoming tenderly angelic.
"We cannot allow that then, can we, Bruce?" he says, tilting his head to the side.
"Yes, my lord," Bruce replies.
Dick's eyes widen.
In that smile, in that pale blue eye, he can see the same little boy that had melted contentedly in his arms and shyly kissed his cheeks, wishing him good luck on what would become his last performance.
The night his parents pummeled to their deaths.
"T-timmy?" he asks, hesitantly, doing his best to prevent his hands from shaking as the boy, now a young man, approaches him.
"Hello, Dick," he whispers, smile widening lightly. "Let's go home, okay?"
Dick cries then, he is not ashamed to admit, skeleton thin hand holding onto the extensive pants leg.
Tim's fingers caressing his hair and, for once in his life, Dick feels home.
….
When Jason is finally steady enough to walk, he is taken to the imposing Drake Manor and introduced to the rest of the household staff by the massive butler, Bruce.
"Alfred will be your direct superior," Bruce explains, a hand firmly placed on his shoulder. "He is the one in charge of the smooth running of the Manor."
An old Englishman with a severe face nods at him, eyes guarded.
"This is Cassandra, the maid," Bruce continues, signaling for a young woman to approach. She's a pretty girl with obvious Asian descent.
She nods to him through her thick black-rimmed glasses, gently cradling her bandaged hand.
"What happened to you?" he asks, frowning.
Cassandra flushes, her eyes falling to her shoes in obvious embarrassment.
Bruce chuckles.
"She's a little clumsy," he explains. "Had a little disagreement with the silverware."
Jason huffs wondering why would they hire a maid that can clearly not do her job.
"And this is Richard," Bruce continues, still smiling. "Our gardener."
The young man who approaches him has the sunniest smile Jason has ever seen. He reaches out with strong fingers and shakes his hand enthusiastically.
"Please call me Dick!" he beams. "Welcome home, Jay! You'll love it here!"
Jason raises an eyebrow, and is about to tell them all that no, this is not his home, he's just here because Bruce saved his life and their delicate young lord offered him a job, but the same whispery chuckle reaches them all and the attention of the whole household is directed from him to the teen making his way towards the door, a small smile on his lips.
"Welcome to my home, Jason," Lord Drake greets, slowly walking towards him. "I hope you enjoy your stay."
He opens his mouth to tell the brat that he will only stay until he is strong enough to return to the front, but Bruce's hand tightens on his shoulder and, by his side, he can see Dick's, Cassandra's and Alfred's eyes fill with the blind devotion only found in those facing what they consider their god and it chills him to the bone to see such reaction.
The boy is no god.
He doesn't deserve such adoration…
"You will learn to feel the same," Bruce whispers on his ear, his hot tongue licking the shell sensuously, branding his skin. "You are his now, forever."
Jason knows he should protest. He is no one's but his own, he is a soldier and not about to play house for a kid's whims.
But there is something making its way inside his head and Young Lord Drake saved him, brought him home and gave him a new chance.
He owes his life… his soul to this wonderful human being.
This angel.
He smiles.
"I'm sure I will, Young Master," he says, bowing before his master, his owner.
His God.