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Tim always knew he was a burden. It wasn’t hard to figure out—like, at all. His parents’ constant sighing, disapproving looks, and eventual departure made that clear enough. The way they loved to talk about their “good old days” whenever they did acknowledge his presence in a remotely positive way made it even clearer. Timothy Drake was an accident baby. He knew that, and that was fine.
To make up for that shortcoming of his, he got great at disappearing. When he was younger, he’d call it hide and seek, just like in the movies. Tim was sure it’d be his favorite game if he had a brother. He would’ve adored having a brother.
Back to the hide and seek—he would hide, mostly in his room so as not to ire his parents, and wait for them to come and “find” him. Which hardly ever happened. Most of the time, the waiting made him fall asleep, and he was usually only woken up by Mrs. Mac the next morning with the news that his parents had left the country once again. He just chalked it up to his parents being bad at the game.
It was safe to say that by now, Tim was a pro at slinking away into the shadows, not to be seen nor heard, whenever necessary. That was exactly what he planned to do today. Jason had already guilt-tripped and manipulated him into staying the night at the manor, which Tim had swiftly countered by making Jason do the same. His mother would’ve been proud of how cunning the move was if she weren’t too busy pretending not to have a son the second she left Gotham.
The second he crept downstairs and toward the dining room for breakfast that morning, Tim knew something was off. He was the last person to come down and yet somehow looked the best—excluding Alfred, of course. Bruce, clad in a suit since he’d be going into the office today, always looked like a zombie before 9 a.m. and three cups of coffee. Tim was admittedly not much different.
The first morning Dick had found Tim and Bruce at the breakfast table looking like they’d rather kiss death than be awake at that hour, he’d dropped to the floor in hysterics, taken a bazillion pictures, and dragged Alfred out of the kitchen to show him the sight—only to pause and poke Bruce in the cheek, seriously asking if he was sure he hadn’t had an affair with Janet in the past. That had both B and Tim wide awake and choking on their coffee.
Especially now, after Ivy attacked his school a few days ago, forcing it to close temporarily and leaving Tim with more spare time for longer patrols, he was practically still asleep in the mornings.
The freaky thing today was that Dick looked like he’d lost a fight with both a washing machine and a freezer at the same time. His hair was sticking up in all directions, some strands dry and others dripping wet. His cheeks were a fiery red, with his nose to match.
Jason didn’t look any better himself. His usual respect for Alfred’s food and his willingness to help the butler every chance he got were nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was staring into the distance with glassy, red-rimmed, vacant eyes, his hands trembling for some unknown reason.
Whereas Dick was clearly sweating, Jason was pale as a sheet and looked to be freezing—so much so that he’d unknowingly chosen to wear Bruce’s old Gotham U sweatshirt. Or at least Tim thought it was unknowingly. After all, B had been searching for that shirt all week without results. So Jason had kind of ratted himself out by wearing it. Not that Bruce would notice now, in his zombie-like state.
All in all, both of Tim’s broth—no, coworkers… no, brothers—looked like shit. Because of this, the logical conclusion he came to was that he should make himself scarce so Alfred could take care of them without Tim getting in the way. It did suck, since Dick had taken time off work just so they could hang out together, maybe even bribe Jason into joining them. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen now.
It was kind of funny, Tim thought to himself while shoveling Alfred’s food into his mouth, how both Dick and Jason were refusing to say anything about their illnesses. Both were too stubborn to ask for help, and Alfred hadn’t said anything about it yet either. Not surprising, since the butler had wrangled Bruce for years and he was exactly the same when he was ill.
Just before Tim could finish his plate and go hide in his room, Jason spoke up in a croaky voice. “Thank you for the food, Alfie. M’gonna leave now.”
With a loud groan, Jason pushed himself up, swayed for a few seconds, then almost fell flat on his face as he took his first step.
“ Master Jason ,” Alfred’s voice was sharp, “sit back down this moment. You are not leaving this manor when you are obviously unwell.”
Jason's eyes drifted over to where Alfred stood as he squinted at the man. "But—but, Alfie..." he whined, much to Tim's surprise.
Because holy shit, Jason Peter Todd aka the Red Hood aka nine-heads-in-a-duffle-bag crime lord actually whined . This was so not on his bingo card this year, but it was hilarious to watch. Well—funny, because someone being clearly sick shouldn’t be hilarious.
"No buts, young lad. You should go lie back down in your room. I will bring some herbal tea by shortly," Alfred tutted before heading back into the kitchen.
With a grin from ear to ear, Dick suddenly stumbled to his feet and practically threw himself onto Jason’s back, clinging to his shoulders.
“Awww, poor Little Wing—” he managed in an abnormally nasal voice before practically sneezing into his brother’s ear.
Jason immediately shoved him off—or tried to, at least.
“Ew, Dick’ead, I dun need yer fuckin’ germs in my face,” he grumbled.
Tim tried not to smile, but he just couldn’t hold it in. This was the most brotherly thing ever , and just witnessing it was amazing. That, and Jason’s Crime Alley accent was clearly coming out.
This might be very stalkerish—because it most definitely was—but Tim loved Jason’s accent. Sadly, his predecessor suppressed it most of the time unless he was too tired, unable to control it for some reason, or thought he was alone. Probably a trauma response to the rich ladies nagging at him at galas back when he’d first been adopted by Bruce, Tim’s one single Google search had told him a few years ago when he gradually noticed the shift.
“The fuck are ya smilin’ ‘bout, you lil’ shit.”
He almost dropped his fork at Jason’s frustrated growl. With wide eyes, he stared at the crime lord, who admittedly didn’t look so mighty with Dick hanging off his shoulders like a koala and himself holding the table for dear life, white as a ghost.
Before Tim could open his mouth and mutter out an apology, Jason groaned loudly and threw his head back nearly smashing it into Dick’s forehead.
“Bruce, why did’ya pick the one with the damn you-kicked-my-puppy eyes? It’s so fuckin’ annoying,” Jason dramatically complained, causing Bruce to prematurely exit his zombie state as the man’s eyes focused.
Clearing his throat, Tim interrupted the mini staring contest that had started between the two men. “Technically I found him. Not the other way around.”
“Well, yes, but—” Bruce started.
“Technically, I found you first, Baby Bird. Don’t forget that,” Dick cut him off with a whine.
Tim flushed at the discussion that ensued about who his favorite was. It was definitely a strange sight to see three well-respected vigilantes—or, in Jason’s case, crime lord slash ex-vigilante slash anti-hero—fight over being a non-family member’s favorite. Jarring, when comparing it to his parents’ treatment of him.
As if hearing his silent prayers, Alfred stepping back into the room drew everyone’s attention.
The family butler, and boss, if everyone were honest, stood still in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at them with visible disapproval.
“Master Bruce, while I understand that you don’t possess an affinity for the mornings, I would expect you to take action when two of your sons are ill. And visibly so, for that matter.”
Bruce almost flinched, Tim noted.
“Eh—yeah. Boys, please go upstairs to your rooms and rest,” he said awkwardly, looking at Dick and Jason.
Before they could protest, Alfred sent them a single look that had both of them simultaneously shut up.
When they still didn’t move, B spoke up again. “If you need me, I can carry you…”
“Nope, absolutely not, ol’ man.”
Dick looked like he was seriously debating it for a second before also declining, although not as fiercely as his brother. As he let go, Dick looked at Tim and ruffled his hair.
“I’m sorry about being sick, Baby Bird. I promise we’ll hang out once I’m better.”
“No, don’t worry. It’s okay, I understand,” Tim told him with a small smile.
Tim was, of course, bummed, but he understood that this wasn’t in anybody’s hands. Being sick sucked, especially for Dick and his love for moving around. Alfred would definitely keep him on a tight leash and right where he could see him, Tim cringed.
As his two brothers trudged toward the stairway, Tim pushed his chair back to follow them. He didn’t get very far until B spoke up.
“Where are you going, Tim?”
Freezing, Tim blue-screened. What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t just tell Bruce he was planning to hide away all day because he didn’t want to bother Alfred. That could come off like he was doubting Bruce’s pseudo-grandpa’s abilities. Very bad. And he had no other real excuse… not good.
Luckily for him, Bruce broke the small silence himself.
“Sorry, Tim. My bad. When one of the boys is sick, I usually take the other with me to the office. That way Alfred can concentrate on his patient, and the risk of said patient doing something stupid because of the other is reduced. You couldn’t have known this,” the man gently explained.
Tim’s eyebrows rose. Which parent willingly took their children to work? That was his parents’ literal worst nightmare. If it wasn’t an occasion where Tim needed to be shown off, he stayed home.
Gaping for a few seconds, Tim quickly closed his mouth before slowly and uncertainly nodding.
“I mean, if you’re sure? I really don’t want to be a bother—”
“You are far from that, Tim,” Bruce interrupted smoothly. “I would leave in about twenty minutes, if that’s alright with you?”
Once again, Tim just stared at the man for a few seconds before nodding. “I’ll, uh, go get ready then,” he muttered before practically fleeing the room.
What the fuck…
Tim was a little confused. Screw that—he was majorly confused. Baffled even.
As he rummaged through the half-empty closet in his—no, the guest room he was staying in whenever he slept over at the manor (not a regular occurrence), he was frantically trying to find something that wouldn’t immediately embarrass Bruce when they stepped into his office.
Most of the clothes he had here were comfortable ones meant for after patrol. He also had a stray school uniform hanging around, just in case. Nothing office-approved though. Or at least, nothing his parents would want him to be seen in at such a setting.
Puffing out a breath, Tim let himself fall onto the bed. This was a catastrophe.
He couldn’t very well show up in jeans and a graphic tee, that wouldn’t do. Nobody would take him, Bruce, or his parents seriously ever again.
Suddenly, he shot up from the bed. Holy shit, how could he have forgotten? Alfred had always kept old clothes in the attic. If he managed to sneak up there, he might be able to find something Dick once wore.
Biting his lip, Tim cast a glance at his phone. He still had fifteen minutes. Not a lot, but it should be possible.
With a deep breath, Tim cracked his door open just enough to peer into the hallway. It was audible that Alfred was in Dick’s room, probably wrangling the acrobat into bed. Jason’s door was half open. His new room, that was, since he’d refused to return to his old one. Very understandable, if you asked Tim. Jason was probably reading, or at least trying to.
Silently, he tiptoed through the hallway toward the stairs leading to the attic, holding his breath. Tim’s heart was pounding. Why? He couldn’t even really say. It wasn’t like he was doing anything illegal , yet he still felt like he couldn’t just ask.
After all, he should’ve known better and come more prepared.
The second he dashed up the stairs, he let out a puff of air, relieved to have completed the first phase of his mini mission.
Even the attic was perfectly clean, Alfred being a real miracle worker. It wasn’t hard at all to find the old Victorian-style closet holding a bunch of old suits and uniforms, all too small for their previous owners now.
Tim carefully considered each suit, eventually settling on a simple black one with a baby blue shirt. The tie was a deep navy, matching the shirt perfectly.
Simple, classy, and timeless.
Almost in a sprint, Tim quietly made his way back down to the room he was staying in and swiftly changed into his newly acquired suit. After styling his hair, he looked in the mirror.
Yeah, this would work. The suit was baggy in some places and tight in others, but not in any way that looked awful or—god forbid—try-hard.
Grabbing his phone from where he’d left it, Tim quickly made his way downstairs to where Bruce and Alfred were waiting for him.
“There you are, chum. I almost thought you fell back asleep,” Bruce joked, just as he turned around to look at Tim.
As his eyes met Tim’s figure, B visibly froze, causing Tim himself to freeze as well.
“Well, would you look at that. One would be a fool to deny familial ties when greeted with this,” Alfred breathed out, visibly surprised.
Tim’s wide eyes were his only response.
Alfred didn’t mind and instead stepped forward to brush the virtually non-existent dust off the jacket’s shoulders.
“In my old age, I must be getting senile,” the family butler started. “I must have put this on your laundry pile by mistake, young Master Tim.”
Tim blinked before stuttering out, “I—uh, no harm done. I must, uh… have mistaken it for one of mine.”
Only then did Bruce shake off his stupor. With a soft smile, he looked at Tim. Not just because they were having a conversation. No, he truly looked at him—as if he were something precious, something worthy and exciting enough to be seen. Something his parents hadn’t done in years.
“You know, this was one of my favorite ones when I was younger. I used to terrorize board members and gala attendees in this,” the man chuckled. “It suits you well, Tim.”
With a soft sigh, Alfred faintly smiled. "I do hope the young lad has more common sense than you did at that age, Master Bruce. Now, off you two go, unless you'd rather be tardy."
"No, no, you're right. Thank you, Alfred. We'll be home by six," Bruce said in farewell before guiding Tim toward the garage.
If Tim ever thought his parents had a few nice cars, their collection paled once Bruce's came into view. The man had a bit of everything from old classics to the newest sports cars.
Turning to him, Bruce gestured at the wall full of car keys, all on separate hooks with little nameplates underneath. "Which one do you want to take, Tim?"
Tim couldn't help but perk up. He got to choose? Gnawing on his lip, he looked around. Which car should he pick? For a second, he debated if there was a right or wrong answer to the question, yet Bruce's oddly encouraging look said otherwise. Screw it, he decided. After all, next in line to the Batmobile, there had always been one car he’d dreamed of riding in ever since he’d read in the newspapers that Bruce owned it.
"Can we take the Ferrari? The F50?"
He tried not to be overly excited, but he knew that he was. That car was one of his favorites. When he was younger, he begged his parents to get him one. They, of course, said no. Not because the car was too rare and expensive. Oh, no. On that basis alone it would've been something Jack and Janet loved purely because it screamed rich, elite socialite. The issue was that they, of course, forgot.
Right after he'd asked them, and his dad had promised to look into it, his parents had gone on a dig for several months as usual. When they finally came back, and when Tim had finally gotten the courage to ask Jack if he’d found a dealer, his father had looked at him in confusion before laughing about his wild imagination. Once he'd realized that Tim had, in fact, not been joking and was dead serious, he'd become furious, called him a greedy leech, and sent Tim to his room for the night, ignoring any plans that had been made for that week and deciding to forgo the other week planned in Gotham, flying straight to the Bahamas.
It was safe to say Tim’s eighth birthday had been a lonely day.
Bruce pulled Tim from his thoughts as he answered, "Sure we can, chum," before swiftly grabbing the car’s keys off the hook and striding toward said red beauty.
Holy Batman, it took everything Tim had not to start fanboying—or worse, squealing—over the car. It was so perfect, so beautiful, so majestic. The Ferrari looked incredibly fast, at that. Yeah, this was definitely his all-time favorite car. No doubts.
As he sat down and buckled himself in, his knee was bouncing in excitement that only multiplied infinitely when B turned it on, causing the engine to roar to life. This was amazing.
While pulling out of the garage, Bruce sent Tim a little smirk. "Dick used to beg me to drive the Cadillac. Jay—" he paused for a second, swallowing, "Jay used to prefer the Jaguar. Personally, I like this one best though."
His mentor’s admission made his insides gooey. There was just something so addictive when it came to approval. Especially Bruce’s. Not that Tim was addicted, of course. Nope, he was a Drake and definitely better than that. If that little voice in his mind wasn’t his own but his mother’s… that wasn’t anybody’s business but his.
The ride toward Wayne Industries was pretty silent, with B or himself only periodically throwing in a word or two.
When they finally arrived, B parked the car in a private corner of the parking garage before getting out, with Tim following him without hesitation. As they walked toward the elevator, Tim’s nerves started to make themselves known. Fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt and jacket, he tried his best to put on his most professional face. He could not ruin this for himself, for Bruce, or god-forbid his parents. It was imperative to leave a damn good impression. The best
With a ding, the elevator arrived on the top floor where Bruce’s office was located. Like a little duckling, Tim inched a bit closer to his mentor as they got out and walked toward the desk of a lady who had to be his secretary.
"Ah, Mr. Wayne, it's good to see you. Good morning!" the lady greeted cheerily, yet still politely. Then her eyes fell on Tim. "And who is this young businessman? Taking one of your sons into the office again?" she continued without missing a beat.
Bruce chuckled, just like he would in his Brucie persona, placing his hand on Tim’s shoulder. "Good morning, Monica. Yes, my other sons are not feeling well, so it's Timmy’s turn to go to the office today."
Tim’s eyes were glued to Bruce’s face, trying to gauge if this reaction was honest or fake.
Weirdly enough, all signs pointed to it being…
real
? Unconsciously, he’d apparently taken a step closer to Bruce, causing Monica to let out a small, breathy giggle.
"Aw, he’s a shy one, isn’t he?" she remarked with a kind smile, before focusing back on Bruce. "Your first meeting is in half an hour with Mr. Fox. Then at eleven, you have the board meeting. I’ll pop into your office after your lunch break to update you on the rest, sir."
"That’s perfect. Thank you, Monica," Bruce answered earnestly, before gently guiding Tim toward the big door at the end of the small hallway.
Walking inside, Tim was greeted with a spacious office featuring a small sitting area, a few bookcases with memorabilia scattered around, and a big desk with multiple monitors and chairs for visitors in front of it. The most impressive feature, however, was definitely the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gotham might be one of the dirtiest and most crime-ridden cities on the eastern coast, but its skyline remained one of Tim’s favorite views. The impressiveness, combined with the city being his home, was the reason for that.
"Alright," B broke the silence, "you are very welcome to sit in on the meeting with Lucius if you'd like. If you don't, I also have a laptop here with games installed on it, art and craft supplies, Lego, or books."
When Tim didn’t answer and instead just stared at Bruce in semi-veiled shock, the man smoothly carried on talking, probably trying to make Tim more comfortable.
"Have you ever met Lucius? I don’t think so, right? You’d like him though, chum." Bruce smiled at him.
Without probably knowing it, his words had Tim breathe out in relief. Especially because Tim had indeed met Lucius before, just in the most embarrassing way ever.
It had been that one time Alfred had convinced him—or rather, ordered him—to stay at Wayne Manor the day after patrol because he’d accidentally broken a few ribs and was pretty high on painkillers to ease the pain. Well, that did not bode well for his dignity.
At some point during the morning, Tim had blearily walked through the Manor halls still half-asleep. He’d been so out of it that he’d trudged into B’s office and climbed into his lap like a spoiled housecat without ever saying a word. It was only when he came to an hour later that he noticed Bruce was in a pretty important call with none other than tech genius Lucius Fox. One hell of a disastrous first impression. It was safe to say that that was also one of the last times Tim let himself be talked into staying over.
Anyway, thank God Bruce had somehow forgotten that, and Tim would rather die than bring the moment up again, so he just shook his head "no."
"I can sit in on the meeting," he answered quietly.
His parents had trained him for that, so it wasn’t an issue. They had made it clear from early on that they expected Tim to take over by his eighteenth birthday at the latest. That didn’t leave much room for other dreams or aspirations, so he guessed it was best to just get used to it early. Especially since this was his first visit to an office in ages, Jack and Janet obviously never being home. Better to use this opportunity now that it arose.
"Are you sure, chum?" Bruce asked earnestly, looking him in the eyes. "You can choose to do something else whenever, okay? Nobody is expecting anything from you here."
The soft eyes and the quirked lips of the man in front of him had Tim’s insides fluttering with butterflies and his knees turning to jelly. Swallowing, he nodded, feeling like a little kid again. Technically he kind of was, but that was beside the point.
Bruce stared right into his soul for a few seconds longer. What he was searching for, Tim didn’t know, as he suppressed any urge to fidget with his jacket sleeves. Then, finally, B nodded. "Alright, come here then."
Quietly, he walked behind Bruce’s desk and sat down on the chair Bruce had pulled up for him. At the same time, B also sat down and started logging into all of his accounts. The next few minutes were spent with Bruce explaining what the ensuing meeting was about and showing the plans, drawings, and statistics involved. Tim asked questions wherever he could, getting bolder and bolder as time passed. Until a knock sounded at the office door and Lucius walked in, that was. Suddenly, Tim quieted down and leaned back in his chair without slouching, trying to distance himself from what would happen with his body language. Little kids like him didn’t have any reason to be at such meetings, his father’s voice whispered into his subconscious.
"Good morning, Bruce. Good morning, Tim," Lucius greeted smoothly, not even batting an eye at Tim’s presence.
The fact that the man knew his name had Tim’s face redden a tinge. God, he remembered , didn’t he? As sinking into the ground wasn’t an option, Tim wished the man a good morning back instead and settled in, listening to the small talk Bruce held.
When the two men eventually transitioned into talking shop, both made sure to include Tim here and there, much to his surprise. Bruce actually asked for his opinion at some point. And the best part was that the man also listened to what Tim had said, carefully considering before asking Lucius to implement it.
Tim felt actually seen, and as much as that was one hell of a shoulder pat, once the more lame and boring topics came to the table, his interest started to dwindle fast. Before he knew it, he was playing around with one of Bruce’s pens or turned around gazing out of the window. His parents would’ve had a stroke.
Instead of correcting him, Bruce suddenly stood up, went over to a cupboard, and pulled out a brand-new Lego set, bringing it over without a word said.
The second Tim held it in his hands, his eyes lit up. It was a Lego set of the Batmobile . Or at least what people thought the Batmobile looked like, since it wasn’t seen close up by civilians usually. Muttering a quick yet grateful thank you, Tim mindlessly slid out of his chair and plopped himself down on the ground diagonally from the desk next to the windows.
Time flew by to the point where he hadn’t even noticed that Lucius had left and Bruce had been pacing in front of the window wall, pinching his face on a call for the past half an hour. After that tiny moment of clarity, Tim’s focus was once again glued only to his Lego set. It was familiar enough to keep him entertained and yet intricate enough to keep his fingers busy.
Suddenly, Tim was ripped out of his little fantasy world as the office door opened and Monica peeked inside. "Sorry for the disturbance, Mr. Wayne," her kind eyes twinkled when they fell upon his figure on the carpet, surrounded by Lego bricks, "Tim. May I remind you of the board meeting which starts in five minutes?"
The way Bruce immediately threw out a curse word—no hesitation—was hilarious. Obviously, he knew that Alfred wouldn’t hear and thus not scold him for it.
"Thank you, Monica. I’ll be downstairs in a few."
Then the man turned towards Tim, but before he could even open his mouth to speak, Tim interrupted him.
"I’m coming with you."
Bruce looked a tad taken aback, but he didn’t mention it and instead only nodded. "Alright, Tim. Let me grab my phone and laptop and we’ll head down. Do you want to take anything with you?"
Tim looked around the room, biting his lip before shaking his head. No, this was a board meeting. The people there were important. His parents would kill him if he didn’t behave like any heir should, even if Bruce somehow just didn’t seem to care.
B’s brows furrowed, and for a second it looked like he wanted to push Tim to do otherwise, but the stubborn look on his Robin’s face let him know enough. Tim would not change his mind.
As the two walked towards the elevator again, his mentor briefly explained that the following meeting was his literal personal hell. It was the quarterly budget discussion, and apparently most board members were extra insufferable during it.
"You are honestly doing me a favor by being here, Tim. It makes things more bearable." Bruce said quietly as they exited the elevator.
"It is empirically proven that sharing a burden lessens it. Although it is kind of sadistic of you to do so with a kid ." Tim snarked, grinning up innocently at Bruce.
He wouldn’t ever refer to himself as a kid, unless it benefitted him, of course. Or if it made B’s life just a little bit more difficult. All comes with the job of being Robin. Or that’s at least what he tells himself. According to the internet, it’s childhood trauma wrapped in daddy issues with a desperate need for a parental figure. But everyone knows not to believe the internet.
The board meeting room at Wayne Enterprises was as grand as Tim had expected. It seemed like everyone was already there, not counting Bruce and Tim, of course. Monica must've told someone to add an additional chair, or she could’ve done it herself, because at the head of the table, two were empty.
Tim schooled his features and followed B's tow, quietly saying his own “good morning” before sitting down, hands in his lap, eyes straight ahead in order to make eye contact with everyone just like his mom had always told him to.
Before Bruce could even open his laptop to start the meeting, an older man whom Tim recognized as Mr. Coxford—one of the lesser fortunate of the elite, yet still a cunning businessman who thrived on public perception—regarded Tim with scrutinizing eyes, making his dissatisfaction about his presence clear with a croaky smoker’s voice.
“ Bruce ,” the man began, trying to make it seem as if they were more than just business partners which had Bruce’s jaw tick “who is this young gentleman with you today? I’m sure there is more interesting to do around WE instead of sitting at one of the most important board meetings of the year.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tim could see his mentor trying to calm himself down before responding. The question had been asked in quite the demeaning way, and the subsequent comment not only insulted B’s child-rearing skills but also sucked back up to the man again. Disgusting.
“ Mr. Wayne is fine,” Bruce started off his response, steady and firm, and Tim had to stifle a smile at Coxford’s displeased face. “Tim, here, was staying with me, and since both of my sons are feeling unwell, I continued my tradition to take any healthy kid in my house to work with me.”
Some part of Tim was very relieved that Bruce didn’t refer to him as his son again, especially because there were pretty influential people in the room—some of whom technically should or could recognize Tim as the Drake heir. The other part was a teeny tiny bit disappointed. That warm feeling of belonging, the approval, the softness and love—it was always really intoxicating.
And after all, Tim wasn’t Bruce’s son. He wasn’t a member of the man’s family, merely his Robin. In the beginning especially, it had been tragically common for Bruce to accidentally refer to Tim as Jason or as his son before quickly backtracking with an apology. Being called Jason was heartbreaking, of course. Being referred to as Bruce’s son was a secret dream of his come true. Not that he would ever tell the man that. Nope. Bruce was perfectly under the assumption that Mrs. Mac was at Drake Manor full time just like Alfred, serving as Tim’s caregiver, and that Tim had two picture-perfect—although busy—parents.
Coxford stuttered. “Ah—of course… Mr. Wayne. I was just surprised since you never took any of your sons to a board meeting before.”
Bruce didn’t bat an eye. “Well, Timmy here was interested to see what it’s like. Who am I to deny him? Now, anybody against not reading last meeting’s protocol?”
And with that, the meeting started in full swing. B had angled his laptop in such a way that Tim could also see everything on the screen. Some executive handed over a packet of paper at some point, obviously trying to score points for what seemed to be a last-minute project she deemed necessary.
Of course, the woman he recognized as Mrs. Elliot—a woman who had been born into wealth just like him—had not made a copy for Tim, which he honestly didn’t mind. She couldn’t have known, after all. So when the discussion about funding for the project slowed to a close, Tim gently took Bruce’s stack to flip through. B had been quiet for the most part as the board members squabbled with each other, all trying to win favors and get as much as possible.
The papers, Tim soon realized, described plans for a welfare center for people who had just lost their jobs or had problems making ends meet. A noble concept, and most definitely needed. Its location at the edge of Crime Alley would definitely be appreciated by Jason. As Tim read on, though—something his mentor had not been able to do on such short notice—red flags started to show.
The welfare center was supposed to be able to have thirty apartment units, a gym , a swimming pool , and a cinema room of all things. Security would be top-notch, which was good, but the rest was just very odd. At the back, there were profiles attached of people who would be interested in managing the center and their plans on how to do so.
At first glance, it all looked fine. That was until Tim spotted the tiny text at the bottom saying that not only would the tenants only be allowed to stay for free for a maximum of three months before needing to pay a steep price , but the managers would also be allowed to evict them on short notice after the three months to make space for new people. This led him to look further into the potential managers, swiftly noting that the people suggested were all distant family members of Mrs. Elliot—all in need of housing and employment. Which also explained the gym, swimming pool, and cinema room.
The last straw was the fine print within the estimated cost table at the very back. At the front, there were some rough numbers, but this one had all of the details. The numbers did not match up at all . So not only was this board member trying to take advantage of people in need to help some of their incompetent relatives, she was also trying to swindle money from Bruce and WE in extension.
Focusing back on what was being said, his heart racing, Tim tuned in just as Mrs. Elliot slyly brought over a contract and a pen for Bruce to sign. B was a bit hesitant, but he liked the idea of the project. He was visibly displeased about the short notice of everything, but that man had a heart of gold and too much cash to care about all the finer details—placing trust in the validity and honesty of the lady’s hands. A lady, who was everything but honest.
Before Bruce could sign, Tim slid the contract from under his hands and tore it in two cleanly. When gasps of disbelief erupted, he felt all the eyes on him, burning through him. Suppressing his shaking hands, he cleared his throat, but before he could get a word in, Mrs. Elliot cried out in outrage.
“Young man, what do you think you are doing? Drake heir against care for the unfortunate? Timothy , what would your parents think?” she practically screeched.
Of course she would recognize him as Timothy Drake. Great .
Clearing his throat again, he held up his hand to kindly shut her up, just like he’d seen Bruce do before. “Kindly refrain from making any judgments, Mrs. Elliot. My parents would be more than satisfied with my unwillingness to fund a project that is nothing but a sham .”
Silence spread through the room as Mrs. Elliot’s cheeks blazed, her face pinched in anger. “How dare you, you insolent —”
“Mrs. Elliot, contain yourself!” Bruce’s voice boomed through the meeting room suddenly.
It was only now that Tim noticed Bruce had also stood up, forming a shield between him and the furious board lady.
Bruce’s attention was swiftly turned back to Tim when Mrs. Elliot kept her mouth shut. “Would you please elaborate, Tim?”
The look on his mentor’s face told him all he needed to know. Bruce was intrigued and placing his full trust in Tim’s hands, just like Batman would do with Robin if the situation called for it. He could not mess this up. Not when he’d already done what he swore not to do—stick his nose into business that wasn’t his own. Hell, he wasn’t even a Wayne heir. What the fuck had he just gotten himself into?
No time to doubt himself now, though. Not when he’d already dug his grave. Nodding, he slid the stack of paper towards Bruce again and started speaking.
“First of all, it is very bad business practice to pressure someone into signing a deal without enough time to go over all the specifics. It shows that you have something to hide. Secondly, when taking a closer look at the included facilities at the center, I can only shake my head. Instead of focusing on using all the space you could for apartments, you instead want an indoor swimming pool, a gym, and a cinema room. In that space, you could make six more apartment units, which I am certain would be much more helpful. The top two floors of the building are supposed to be converted into a few luxury apartments, to which I can only ask why? The people inhabiting this center will be most grateful for a roof over their heads, electricity, and hot water. No need for these excessive expenses. On page thirteen, there are a few more than questionable clauses that basically take advantage of those in need. The management you propose, Mrs. Elliot, consists of less fortunate or business-inexperienced people from your family, to whom basically all the power over the tenants would go. And lastly, with the sum of money you are asking for, and the detailed cost plan you included at the veeeeryyyy back, you would basically steal 10k dollars from Bruce. Monthly .”
When he looked up from the paper and at his mentor and the others, he flinched. Mouths were hanging open because of his rather ruthless call-out. Mrs. Elliot looked about to explode, sputtering to deny it. And Bruce? Bruce’s eyes were narrowed at first as they met his yet suddenly they grew soft and filled with pride.
“ Thank you , chum, for saving the company from making a very bad decision.” He ran a fond hand through Tim’s hair before turning towards the board. “It is shocking to see that it had to be a middle schooler to point this out to us. This serves as a lesson to us all. Mrs. Elliot, my legal team will deal with you for this fraudulent behavior.”
Tim watched as B gathered his belongings. “Tim and I are going on lunch break. We will pick this topic back up on another day. Meeting adjourned.”
As “goodbyes” filled his ears, Tim walked out of the meeting room right after Bruce. The second they got back up into the man’s office, B practically threw his stuff down on his desk before suddenly gathering him into a hug. “Thank you, Tim. My brave and smart little Robin.”
Uncaring about boundaries and all, for once, Tim let himself melt into the hug. Was this what it felt like to make your dad proud? Not that B was his dad, of course.
“I am so proud of you,” the man said, as if reading his mind.
"Thanks, B," Tim murmured after a while, resting his head against Bruce's chest. This shit was more exhausting than he could've ever imagined.
At some point, Tim was maneuvered to sit in B's lap as the man himself sat down at his desk to work some more. Tim didn't know how long he played cat for, since at some point he fell asleep. Bruce only gently woke him up around 1 p.m.
"Are you back in the land of the living, chum? Food’s here. I ordered pasta from the cafeteria downstairs, if that’s okay?"
" Hn ." Tim rubbed his eyes blearily.
Bruce chuckled. "Yes, it's Alfred-approved. I wouldn’t dare anger him."
" Hnnh ."
"No, you have to eat something, Tim."
"Fineee," he whined, sitting up. It was only then that he realized he had communicated in Batman—a term Dick had come up with to describe the grunts B used to communicate in costume and out of it, whether he was tired, annoyed, or just not in the mood to talk.
All the Robins and even Alfred were fluent in understanding it. Even Superman, Tim was pretty sure. Only he himself, though, could also communicate with the grunts. Another reason why Dick especially loved to joke about needing to test Tim's DNA against Bruce's again, just in case.
In the end, Tim and Bruce had eaten their lunch together, which he had to reluctantly agree was pretty good. Not Alfred-level good, of course—nobody could compare to him—but good regardless. The afternoon was less eventful, something Tim didn't mind at all. As B had phone calls, emails to answer, and people come visit him, Tim switched between sitting on the ground and building his Lego Batmobile and napping on one of the couches. Monica periodically brought in drinks and snacks for him, something Bruce said she only did for those business partners of his that she liked , so he took that as a win.
Time flew by, and by the time he'd finally completed his Batmobile Lego set, Bruce had shooed away the last people wanting to see him for the day. As Tim started to break his Lego build apart again in order to put it back into the box, B interrupted him with a confused look.
"Chum, why are you breaking it?"
His head shot up as he looked at his mentor’s face. He was doing something wrong, wasn’t he?
Swallowing, Tim meekly answered, "I need to put it back into the box to give it back to you, and to do so I need to take it apart?"
It came out as a question, something he'd definitely not intended to.
Bruce's almost sad look was enough to freeze him in place.
"Tim, this is yours. I gave it to you, okay? Keep it."
When he wanted to object, B held up his index finger, effectively silencing him. " No . Keep it."
Reluctantly, Tim nodded, saying a quiet thank you before walking out of the office after Bruce. After bidding Monica goodbye—the woman more than enthusiastically telling Tim that he was a pleasure to have and should definitely come by again—they took the elevator down to the garage.
Both Bruce and Tim were tired, that much was evident, since the car ride back to Bristol was mostly quiet with some small conversation here and there, and Tim thanking the man more than once for taking him to the office in the first place.
"Please don’t thank me, Tim. As I already said, it is tradition to do so. And Monica is right, you are a pleasure to have. Your parents must be very proud."
That sentence had Tim snapping back into focus again. What the hell was he doing? Going with Bruce to the office, getting introduced as his son, pushing his nose into business that wasn't his. He had taken advantage of B’s emotional vulnerability! Oh no, he should’ve known better.
With a sinking feeling in his stomach and lead tongue, Tim quietly asked Bruce to drop him off at Drake Manor, causing the other to look at him in pure confusion.
"My parents are coming home this evening. They texted me this afternoon that they were able to take the earlier flight back. I probably won’t be able to patrol, if that’s okay," Tim rushed to say, coming up with a lie.
Baffled, Bruce offered to have him dine with him and the rest first, but Tim declined.
In the end, B drove his Ferrari up the driveway toward Drake Manor without further discussion. The mood had turned a bit somber, but it was for the greater good, Tim reasoned. He couldn’t take advantage of Bruce and his emotional confusion, because that was surely what Bruce was. If not even his parents wanted him, then Bruce shouldn’t either.
Hopping out of the car, careful not to break his Batmobile, he sent Bruce a thin smile. "Bye Bruce, thank you for putting up with me. I really enjoyed it."
"No, thank you for putting up with me," the man tried to joke before telling Tim to call him if he ever needed anything.
"I will," he responded, not promising it though, before saying, "I’ll bring your old suit back next patrol."
The second Tim closed the door behind him, enclosing him in the cold, quiet, and loveless halls of what was his home, he sagged against the door, biting back tears. It was for the best, he told himself. Maybe not for him, but definitely for the Waynes.
That night he went to sleep with the Lego Batmobile firmly planted on his nightstand, right next to the photo of him and Dick at the circus and the handwritten recipe Jason had given him for his signature pasta that he’d once made for him.
Back at the Batcave, Bruce leaned back into his chair with a sad sigh. Jack and Janet Drake had, in all actuality, not booked a flight home to Gotham and instead flown out to Thailand two days ago.
"Why did you lie, Tim?" he said into the echoing cave where he sat alone.
He would have to figure it out. Especially if he wanted to bring this wayward son home as well.