Chapter Text
“We’re not going to make it back,” Bruce says, as he and Tim are commuting through Downtown Gotham after a long night of tracking Riddler and his multi-stage brain blenders through the entire city.
Tim glances up from the report on his tablet in alarm, expecting to see God Himself standing on the road in front of them holding up a golden staff à la Gandalf. When he sees nothing but the empty streets of Gotham before them except for the occasional late-night straggler on the road, he turns, unimpressed, to Bruce.
(He still has his domino on so Bruce cannot see his unimpressed eyes, but Bruce is smart enough to connect the dots.)
“What do you mean?” Tim asks, because his mother didn’t do much to raise him, but she damn well instilled the great attributes of politeness and respect in him before she died.
“The gas tank is nearly empty. We won’t make it all the way back.”
A quick analysis confirms his statement. The gas tank is horrendously empty, they’re already running on fumes. Unsurprising, considering how much they’d driven that night.
Tim’s mind, as per usual, goes straight into making contingency plans. He and Bruce are incredibly alike in that sense.
“Can someone meet us with a spare gallon or two?”
“Nightwing has returned to Blüdhaven and already turned in for the night, Hood has an operation to take down one of the gangs in his area, we’re not waking up Signal, and according to the comms channel, Agent A turned in for the night after Nygma was taken into custody.”
“Right…” Tim says. Spoiler has a broken collarbone and is benched for the time being. Robin is in San Francisco with the Teen Titans for a few days. Tim would usually take one of his own vehicles, but he was at the manor when the alert came through and both his motorcycle and Redbird were at The Nest. “So just get gas?”
“Purchase gas? At a convenience store?”
Tim drops his tablet and turns to stare directly at Bruce, again. Sure, Bruce spends most of his time in the manor and the vehicles he drives most often are of the bat-variety, but Bruce still goes to Wayne Enterprises at least once a week. He’s definitely pumped his own gas before.
Right?
No— yes.
They’d driven up to Metropolis once together and had to get gas on the way back. Bruce went to a gas station like a normal person, used his black credit card, and put gas in his vehicle.
“Bruce, you’re literally a billionaire. You can afford gas.”
“No names or identifying information in costume.”
“We are in a soundproofed vehicle and not speaking over comms,” Tim protests. Bruce only grunts in response. Tim rolls his eyes. “I don’t see what the problem is. It’s not like the Batmobile takes jet fuel. It runs on premium, the only difference is you’d fill it up outside of the cave.”
“It leaves us open to vulnerabilities and—”
“I’ll stay in the car the whole time. I’ll lock the doors.”
Bruce grunts again, but this time it sounds like concession.
Just before the bridge into Bristol, Bruce pulls the Batmobile into a Gotham City Gas station on the outskirts of the Downtown area, in that in-between zone where the urban area fades into suburban sprawl. Tim has been here a few times himself, as it’s one of the closer gas stations to The Nest. Of course, they’ve always been as the civilian Tim Drake in his commuter sedan Mercedes or weekend joyride Ducati and never as Red Robin.
“Can you grab me a pack of sour gummy worms? Oh, and a Zesti!”
“Red…” Bruce says, heavy with exasperation.
“What?! You’re going inside to pay with cash anyways, it’s not like you can use one of your credit cards at the pump.”
Bruce sighs, and Tim knows it means he’s won.
“Thank you!” he croons, and goes back to finishing up his report for Oracle, who also turned in for bed once the cleanup began. However, she’s likely to be up before him in the morning and would appreciate having everything already done for her to review.
“Watch the car,” Bruce tells him through the open driver’s-side door and Tim goes a two-fingered salute knowing he will do no such thing. He does, however, dutifully lock the car as he says he would and goes back to finishing up his report and checking on the cleanup.
When he glances up next he sees Batman stalking back to the car, pack of gummy worms and can of soda in hand. Tim decidedly does not squeal in delight, but he unlocks the doors and holds out a hand for his treats.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He pretends to not notice the stiffness in Bruce’s shoulders soften at the term. Tim doesn’t call Bruce “Dad” that much, often finding it too uncomfortable to say seriously despite legally being Bruce’s son; he has, however, found himself using it sarcastically or in jest to get what he wants.
Bruce shuts the door for him to go pump the gas and Tim takes the opportunity to dig into his prizes.
A pack of sour gummy worms and a can of grape Zesti Cola, his favorite flavor…
Did Bruce know it was Tim’s favorite when he bought it? Or was it a shot in the dark, another flex of his detective mind-reading abilities? Or did he simply not care, and chose any can at random, and just so happened to pick Tim’s favorite?
Regardless, Tim finds himself staring down at the can and the pack of candy with a grin on his face. He quickly sends the report to Oracle's inbox and uploads it into the Bat’s network of case files. He pulls the source file for one of his surveillance deletion codes, setting it to nuke the past ten minutes of the gas station’s cameras when they leave. When everything is complete, he shuts off the tablet and stows it in its designated compartment in the glovebox of the Batmobile just as Bruce climbs back into the driver’s seat. Tim opens his pack of gummy worms, tossing a pink and blue one into his mouth. He doesn't care too much anymore about spoiling his appetite.
They pull back into the roadway with a squeal of tires.
“Should I drop you off at The Nest?” Bruce asks him as they approach the main intersection; right is the entrance to the nest's underground access point, left is the bridge to cross into Bristol. “Or one of the Zeta Tubes?”
“Neither,” Tim replies, grabbing another gummy worm. He’s yet to open his can of Zesti but figures it would be good with whatever dinner Alfred left for them in the kitchen’s food warmer. “Let’s go home.”
There is warmth in Bruce's tone when he speaks again, like rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds, and Tim can see he is entirely Bruce now, and no longer Batman.
“...Right,” Bruce says after a few moments, the rough growl gone from his voice. “Home.”
He makes a left at the next intersection.