Chapter Text
“To the rich,” Tim giggled to himself, clinking his glass against the bottle of Don Julio he stole from behind the bar during the New Year’s countdown. “Bottom’s up .” He tossed it back, grimacing at its sour taste. He poured himself another as he sauntered behind the obscene $10,000 wall decoration Bristol’s elite had commissioned for the night—and plopped down on the ballroom’s surprisingly plush carpet, thoroughly out of sight from any grown-up who might feel obligated to feign concern. Not that this crowd would even care much about the underage drinking, but Tim wasn’t about to risk a potential conversation with whatever rich fucker felt it their “good deed” for the night when they realized shy little Timmy Drake was getting sloshed at the Annual New Year’s Party for Rich Idiots (as Tim so lovingly christened it several years ago). He burped a little as he leaned against the partition and closed his eyes briefly.
“You’re too young for that.” An imperious voice startled him out of his reverie.
Tim snorted.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime, Dennis the Menace?” Tim took another swig out of the bottle he was holding, forgoing the glass altogether, and looked up at his ten-year-old stalker. Damian had joined the Wayne family a couple years ago and made a splash with his debut as Brucie’s “new biological child”. Tim remembered watching in amusement when the brat threatened to cut off Rhea Barlow’s left ear for calling him an “uncultured barbarian” last June at the Children’s Hospital charity banquet. The papers got a scrapbook worthy photo of Richie and Jason Wayne hauling him back, smirking and offering very insincere apologies.
What the papers missed was Tim’s subsequent dressing down of the Barlow heir—a veiled threat and pointed comment in front of her father which found Barlow sent to Europe on an “extended vacation” come the next gala. And while the papers missed it, Damian didn’t. If Tim had known his defense of the brat would earn him a lifelong shadow at these things, he would have just fucked off like usual and instead tried to score a joint from one of the catering staff.
Damian bristled. “Really, Timothy, it’s against the law.”
Tim snorted, and held back an impulse to mess up the kid’s gelled hair with a ruffle. “So are a lot of things, Lil’ Wayne. I wouldn’t be talking with the family you got. Logs in the eye, and all that.” Damian likely thought Tim was referring to Jason’s most recent headline: Wayne Scion Punches Father at Wayne’s Winter Wonderland Extravaganza instead of their family’s secret life as super-furries, protecting Gotham in the cringiest way known to man.
Damian scowled at the nickname, and to Tim’s eternal annoyance, sat down next to him.
“The Drakes were not here tonight.” Damian glared at Tim like he was a puzzle. Tim thought it made him look like an especially pissed-off kitten.
“Keep up with my parents, do you? You’re a little young still for networking, kiddo.” Tim smirked in his most obnoxious way—partly because he knew it annoyed the gremlin and partly because he was annoyed himself. Not only did Damian always find a way to bother him at these events, but he had taken to asking Tim questions like he was some sort of victim. Tim tried to nip that in the bud big time, but everything he said seemed to roll off of Damian’s back like water.
“You said they’d be here.” The kid pointed at him accusingly. Tim took another drink.
“Jack and Janet are busy people. Unlike Wayne Enterprises, our company is actually climbing in net worth and revolutionizing the medical field. I mean, I’m sure WE is making money for the tabloids constantly, but we both know that’s not the same thing.” Damian huffed at Tim’s speech and rolled his eyes.
“Tim-o-thy.” He whined, sounding every bit 10 years-old and not a bit befitting his last name.
“Da-mi-an.” Tim whined back, smirking. “Why are you so adamant about seeing them anyway, Baby Shark? I’m pretty sure the last time a Wayne wanted to do business with them, your father got slapped with a fifty-million dollar lawsuit and a pretty embarrassing press release.”
“I got a cow.”
Tim blinked. “Okaaay. And that has to do with my parents, how?”
“You need to come see it.” Tim shook his head and this time, didn’t hold back when ruffling the kid’s hair.
“Not a chance, pipsqueak. You know the rules.” Tim took another long sip at Damian’s glare and grinned. He lowered his voice mockingly and wagged his finger like Jack. “Step one foot in that house again, young man, and we’ll have Wayne arrested for kidnapping.” In reality, it was I will beat your ass next time you go over there and then pay one of those crazies in the city to kill him and display his flayed body in the halls of Arkham only after destroying his reputation and the reputation of his hellspawn for generations to come, Timothy, don’t think I won’t, and if you ever, ever bring him up to my face again, you’ll get much worse than my fist, but Tim didn’t think Damian needed the details.
“But you should come home.”
“Fuck, kid, shut up.” Tim slapped his hand over Damian’s mouth, looking around wildly. “Listen. I don’t know what you think is going on here, but you are very, very wrong, okay. Whatever Dick or Jason may have told you, you need to forget it. I don’t know what I did that made you think we were friends or something, but you need to leave me alone, stop talking to me, and don’t say shit like that again.”
“Damian?” A shadow fell between them.
“Br…Mr. Wayne.” Tim quickly slid the tequila bottle under the partition and scrambled to get up. He put out his hand and smiled. “Damian and I were just talking about you.”
“T...Tim.” Bruce Wayne shook his hand and smiled back thinly. “I was hoping we—”
“Anyway, got to scoot, my ride’s here. Stay lame, shortstack. Happy New Year, Mr. Wayne. Keep crushing the competition and all that shit.” Tim stumbled back without looking at either of them and emerged from behind the divider, practically running into the middle of the ballroom. Several balloons and pieces of confetti littered the floor, and multiple partygoers grunted in frustration as Tim sailed past them towards the kitchens.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” He whispered under his breath as he looked for a familiar face among the catering staff. There we go. “Max!” He snapped his fingers and instantly cringed, knowing it made him look like an asshole. “Do me a solid? Please?” Tim discretely passed a large wad of hundreds to a greasy-looking middle-aged man wearing an apron and a bomber jacket. “I’ll bring it back to you tomorrow. I promise.”
The tattooed server rolled his eyes but tossed him a key ring anyway. “Not a scratch, kid.”
Tim saluted and hurried out the back door, into the convention center’s service parking lot. Gotham’s night air smelled strongly of smog and gasoline, and lingering smoke from Canada’s most recent forest fire. He found the Harley parked next to the lot’s dumpsters, and jumped on.
Tim grabbed a couple of pieces of spearmint gum and chewed them vigorously as he started the engine and gingerly backed out of the spot. He was almost out of the parking lot when the metaphorical bullet he was attempting to dodge cut in front of him, in the form of Richard Grayson Wayne’s red Maserati and two identically scowling faces staring him down from the front seats.
Their windows were rolled down. Tim began to inch the bike around them but a warning honk from the driver and a sharp “Just fucking try it, kid,” from the passenger’s seat had him turning it off and looking at them warily. Jason hopped out of the car and grabbed Tim’s collar in one smooth motion. Dick was still idling the car, watching placidly as Tim was manhandled into the backseat, Jason scooting next to him, leaving his brother up front.
“Child locks on, Dickhead?” Jason growled, and Tim’s stomach dropped in sync with the clicking sound. Jason was practically vibrating in his seat as Dick pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the dark road. Their radio was off, and the silence was thick and awkward.
“What. The. Hell. Were. You. Thinking.” Jason’s voice was low but clear. Tim could feel the man staring at him but he refused to look and instead watched the passing streetlamps bend in the late night fog. A large thump startled him and he jumped as Jason hit the seat in front of him angrily. “Dami said you practically downed a whole fucking bottle of top shelf like it was a fucking water bottle in the middle of the fucking desert.”
“Jay,” Dick’s warning was low.
“I’m allowed to be fucking pissed about this, Dickie, the little idiot was about to drive away sloshed and without a helmet. You could have killed someone. You could have killed yourself.”
“Whomp whomp.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Leave the drama for the stage, Wayne, you are making way too big a deal out of this.”
“Tim!” Dick’s warning this time was a little louder. He pulled over on the side of the road. “Jay, breathe. We got him, he’s with us. Take a minute.” Jason let himself out and slammed the door behind him. Tim could see him walk a few meters in front of the car, lighting a cigarette. Dick turned to stare at Tim. When Tim looked down, he told himself it wasn’t because Dick’s disappointment was too much to bear. “This isn’t healthy, Timmy. We’re just worried about you.”
“What you are is kidnapping me. And I can think of several court orders you’re violating right now, Dickie, so if you don’t mind, let me out here and I’ll call a cab.”
“You said you’d be safe.” Dick’s voice was neutral, but the threat was clear in his words.
“I am safe. I don’t know why your crazy family believes otherwise, but I am perfectly fine.”
“Tim,” and with this, Dick unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed deftly in the back. Tim barely flinched when Dick’s hand rested tentatively on his knee. “You promised us. You said you’d stay in touch at least once a week. You’ve been avoiding us for months. We only see you at galas and Dami is the only one you actually let talk to you. Jay called me absolutely pissed because he heard Jack screaming the other night from our back porch.” Tim smiled at that memory and let himself lean his head on Dick’s shoulder.
“He actually turned purple.” Tim snorted.
Dick didn’t.
“You need out, you say the word.”
Shit. He was really serious. Tim turned and looked at Dick. He patted him on the cheek, “You’re a good not-brother, you know.”
Dick smiled sadly. “Yeah, yeah, kiddo. Why don’t you sleep it off, huh? Jason will drive you to Bernard’s.”
“The manor.” Tim yawned. “Supreme Lord and Dragon Lady are in Monaco this week.”
The driver’s door opened, and Tim watched through heavy eyelids as Jason adjusted the seat. Dick guided his head to his shoulder again and ran his hands through his hair. Tim drifted off to the smell of cigarettes and Dickie’s cologne, and Jay’s heavy sighs the whole way back.