Chapter Text
Today, Tim is on strict instructions to not leave Janet's side (Tim honestly wonders if they drew straws to decide who got the liability). Apparently, he made such a ruckus yesterday that he needs proper supervision. Tim would argue that the kidnappers made the bigger ruckus, that no one could possibly remember the little snafu that was Bruce and the wine glasses, but that wasn't true.
After all, all of Gotham's high society is at the Wayne luncheon today.
And not a single person has commented on the host's black eye or split lip. Yet plenty of people hold on tighter to their wine glasses when shaking his hand.
"Try not to look so miserable, Timothy," Janet scolds, guiding him toward the CEO of some shipping company Batman is investigating for smuggling. "You are representing the Drake family."
Tim keeps his chin up and eyes sharp, even if mentally he's drifting away.
Yesterday was his first time acting solo within Gotham. Technically Alfred did approve the mission, but Tim isn't sure if Batman will agree that it was a sanctioned op. Will he be benched again? (Benched, not "benched")
What will the debrief process look like? He submitted his report punctually (hell, he was in the Batmobile when he wrote it) but he was honest in it, detailing every mistake and place where improvement will be needed. Tim knows better than to hope for a crisp high five or satisfied nod. No doubt, he's in for a stern lecture or reprimand during patrol.
A sharp grip guides Tim to his seat, bookmarked by his parents on each side. He takes a breath and refocuses, knowing that any slip-up now will have no chance of escaping their notice.
Place his napkin in his lap.
Use the small fork for the salad.
Laugh politely at the congressman's joke.
Sip at his water.
Ignore the waiter as they swap the salad for the main course.
Nod seriously at the congressman's canned spiel.
Leave a few bites on his plate so he doesn't look gluttonous.
Dab at the edge of his mouth with his napkin.
Focus on Bruce's thank you speech as the main course is cleared and dessert is served.
Take small bites of the chocolate cake, not too eagerly.
Sip the water again as a slight itch tickles his throat. Sip the water again. Gently clear his throat.
The itch persists.
"Mother." Tim muffles his cough. "May I please be excused for a moment?"
"Hush, Timothy." She doesn't even look at him.
"Father, I need to use the facilities." He tries his other parent.
"Stop behaving like a child," Jack reprimands under his breath.
Tim tries to sit still, but there's a strange lump in his throat and the itchy feeling doesn't go away. Another large swig of water draws a side eye from Janet.
There's not another option. Tim ignores his parents and stands, swiftly but calmly moving toward the bathrooms.
What is happening to him? Some kind of weird anxiety attack? He would think this is some rogue's poison, but he seems to be the only one acting like this.
Some waiters have already started to clear the final course from tables, steadily moving from the lawn toward the kitchen.
"Do you think there will be leftover cake for the staff to steal?" One of them says to their colleague. "Hazelnuts are my favorite."
Hazelnuts?
"Wait, sir—" Tim's voice is raspier than he expects, not strong enough to get the waiter's attention.
The cake. He was told it was a chocolate cake. The creamy brown layer in the middle, that was another type of chocolate, right?
Tim wheezes in a breath.
Oh.
He's not having an anxiety attack.
He's having an allergic reaction.
That is… not ideal.
If his parents thought that he caused a ruckus yesterday, this would be like assassinating the president in their eyes. How was he supposed to know there was hazelnut spread in the cake?!
Maybe he can find calm himself down in the bathroom, or maybe find some spare Benadryl in the cabinets, or…
"Thank you kindly all for your help tonight." A prim voice floats down the hall. "Once all the washing and polishing has been finished, all staff is welcome to partake in whatever leftovers remain and take them home to your families."
Alfred.
Alfred would know what to do.
"Mr. Pennyworth," Tim calls, voice horse and feeble. "Mr. Pennyworth!"
The butler doesn't hear him, walking decisively down the hall toward the lawn. Tim stumbles up to him and yanks his sleeve, nearly tripping over his own heavy limbs.
"Mister Drake?" Alfred crouches down. "Is something the matter?"
Tim wheezes in a gasp, and Alfred's eyes sharpen as he tugs off a glove to feel Tim's temperature.
"Young lad, are you ill?"
"Tree nuts," he rasps, breath coming shallower and shallower.
A brief flash of recognition passes over Alfred's face.
"Oh good heavens!" He steers Tim to lay on the ground and then speaks into an earpiece. "Anaphylactic reaction in the corridor off the main kitchen. Epi-Pen and ambulatory services required. Someone find Janet and Jack Drake and inform them of the incident."
No, no, no!
Tim needs to keep this quiet. He doesn't need an ambulance or his parents.
"Don't tell—" Tim chokes on the words. "I'm fine. Don't need—"
"Save your breath, Master Tim." Alfred pets his hair. "Everything will be quite alright."
Tim whimpers as tears flood his eyes, loud footfalls echoing down the corridor as a first aid kit is passed to Alfred.
The next few minutes pass in a blur as Alfred injects the Epi-Pen, never leaving his side as other staff members flit about.
Eventually, Tim can hear the faint click of heels growing louder.
"Allergic reaction?" Janet scoffs. "Surely Timothy knows better than to consume something he's allergic to. Shrimp wasn't even served today."
"Timothy is far too responsible to cause a scene like this," Jack agrees.
"Mr. and Mrs. Drake!" Alfred briefly lets go of Tim's hand to wave them down. "We are over here. The young Mister Drake is reacting well to the Epi-Pen, and the ambulance should be here momentarily."
"Ambulance?" Jack raises an eyebrow. "Nonsense. We can just stick Timothy in a cab and send him home. No need for all of that fuss."
"Your son suffered a severe allergic reaction." The butler's words are clipped. "I'm afraid I must insist. There is the possibility the allergy could flare again, even after the epinephrine has been administered."
"What? Are you a doctor?"
"I served as a medic in the Royal Army, sir." Alfred stands and carefully helps Tim to his feet as he hears word that the ambulance arrived. "My medical qualifications far exceed treating allergic reactions."
"It's alright, Mr. Pennyworth." Tim's shoulders curve inwards. "You don't need to worry about me. I have Benadryl at home."
"Master Tim, you know that it is no imposition for neither Master Bruce nor I to worry about you." Alfred guides Tim past his parents, sending a thinly-veiled displeased look their way. "You need medical attention, which I will ensure you receive."
"You're Bruce's butler?" Jack glances at Janet who narrows her eyes in careful analysis.
"Timothy, dear, let's get you to the hospital." She tugs Tim out of Alfred's arms and sweeps a lock of hair behind his ear. "You scared your father and I so much when we heard you were sick. Where did you even find shrimp? They didn't serve it."
The three of them load into the ambulance, Alfred silently watching, observing. His mouth is set into a thin line, no doubt seeing past their ruse of concern. Tim will have to follow up with him later, make sure he doesn't look too much into anything.
As soon as the ambulance doors shut, the tension in the car skyrockets. They can't say anything — not with the paramedics next to them — but all of their attention turns to angry tapping on their phones.
A doctor sees Tim at the hospital and treats his allergic reaction just as the adrenaline starts to wear off. It's anticlimactic and simple, and Tim thinks — hopes — that will be the end of it. But then the doctor wants to keep him a few hours for observation.
Jack's patience runs out.
"Now, look here!" He shouts. "My son is fine. He was stupid and craving attention, and now you mean to tell me you want to reward his behavior by actually giving him that attention? I am a very busy man and you are wasting my time!"
"Mr. Drake—"
"No! I will not be held hostage by some—"
"Jack, let me handle this," Janet interrupts coldly. She pulls the doctor aside, checkbook in hand.
Money really does solve every problem, doesn't it?
In no time, a very happy doctor is waving them goodbye as they walk through the hospital's back doors into a waiting cab, and another painfully silent ride brings them to Drake Manor.
His parents' heavy footsteps echo through the foyer as they climb the main staircase without even a glance over their shoulders.
"Mother?" He probes cautiously.
She continues down the hallway and into her bedroom without acknowledging him. His dad pulls out their suitcases — already packed — and his mother grabs a few things off their nightstands before joining him.
"Father?" Tim tries again. "Please, I'm sorry."
But the familiar sound of roller wheels on hardwood floors don't falter once.
"Don't leave me again," he chokes, his throat tightening for a different reason this time. "I can be good, I promise. Wait. Mom! Dad! Please, don't leave me!"
The front door slams in his face.
Tim falls to the floor, shoulders wracking with silent sobs as he buries his face in his knees.
He doesn't cry out or scream or wail.
Why would he?
There's never anyone around to hear.
/|\ ^._.^ /|\
To say Alfred is shocked to see Robin that night is an understatement.
"Master Robin?" He raises an eyebrow. "Are you supposed to be here tonight?"
"Am I not?" The young child tilts his head in genuine confusion, his mess of hair flopping into his eyes. It would behoove the boy to get a hair cut, but Alfred will withhold his judgment until it becomes a danger on patrol.
"I must be misremembering." Alfred deflects, though he is very certain that the child in front of him is meant to be in a hospital at the moment.
He does know one thing.
Robin is not going on patrol tonight.
… Just as soon as Alfred comes up with a suitable reason he can't, one that the headstrong child will accept. It will have to be one that benches Bruce as well, just as headstrong in his adult body, or else the child will sneak out to follow him.
Hmm.
"Master Batman?" Alfred calls out as the man in question heads toward the locker rooms. "Surely you aren't forgetting something?"
"I…" He freezes. "Um, thank you? For all of your help today?"
"While I appreciate that you do still possess good manners, I was referring to the fact that today is the date for your annual physical?" Alfred piques an eyebrow, as if he wasn't moving this event up by several months.
"No, physicals are in late summer and—"
"Now, Master Batman," Alfred urges, an urgency in his tone. He ignores Bruce's scrutiny as he turns and walks toward the med bay. "And bring young Master Robin with you as well."
Bruce wisely decides to listen the his butler, and soon both of the vigilantes are obediently sitting on a cot in the med bay.
Alfred starts with Robin, carefully noting his blood pressure and heart rate, having him lower his mask lenses so he can check his eyes. And just as he thought, there are subtle signs of antihistamine use.
And that is all the confirmation Alfred needs.
"Master Batman, could you please fetch the young Master Robin a glass of water?"
"There's a bottle in the fridge right here."
"A glass of juice then," Alfred tuts. "One with ice. Perhaps freshly squeezed. We have marvelous oranges in the kitchen that are threatening to go bad."
Bruce stares quizzically at Alfred's back for a moment before leaving, his footsteps sounding on the stairs up to the Manor. There will likely be a war zone left for Alfred to clean later — inviting Bruce into his kitchen never bodes well — but he needs an excuse to speak with Robin privately.
"Master Robin, what is this puncture mark from?" Alfred asks, studying the subtle sign of an IV still in his elbow. "Have you been to the hospital recently?"
"What?" Robin squeaks, eyes wide. "Hospital? Pscht. Nah, what?"
"Might I remind you," Alfred interrupts, "that you and I have an agreement not to lie to each other?"
Robin shuts his mouth.
"I need to know what you were treated for." Alfred lowers the boy's sleeve. "It could threaten your or Master Batman's health if you were to fall ill on patrol."
"I…" His cheeks flush red. "I didn't know what hazelnuts tasted like. I swear I wasn't trying to be irresponsible or force anyone to pay attention to me, it was an accident."
"I believe you, young lad." And oh, how it hurts the old man's heart to hear him echoing the harsh words that have been inevitably flung his way. "How are you feeling? Any tightness of breath? Drowsiness? Nausea?"
"No, I'm fine."
Alfred simply raises an eyebrow and grabs a stethoscope from a drawer, carefully listening to the boy's breathing and examining his airway. Fortunately, Alfred doesn't find anything to be concerned by.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Alfred questions. "This is something I need to know to properly care for you."
"How many allergic reactions do you think Gotham hospitals have in a day?" Robin shies away from the butler. "Dozens? Hundreds? How hard do you think it would be for Batman to find one teenage boy with black hair and blue eyes? I…" He stands suddenly. "I need to go. I need to delete the hospital records. I—"
"Master Robin, sit down," Alfred scolds, returning his equipment to their proper places. "You need not concern yourself with that. I have no desire to investigate your medical records. So long as you report all relevant information to myself, I will respect your privacy, and only pass along what is pertinent to Master Batman."
"Why?" Robin doesn't sit back down, but he does take a small step back. "Why are you the one person who isn't trying to stop me?"
"I have already told you, dear lad." He smiles kindly. "All I want is for you to be cared for. Your identity has no bearing on whether or not I look after you. It is my pleasure regardless."
"One glass of freshly squeezed orange juice," Bruce announces, as he descends the staircase from the Manor back into the Cave.
It appears he used his time in the kitchen to correctly deduce that Alfred needed a moment of privacy with the lad, and was giving the duo plenty of notice that he was on his way back.
What a marvelous detective he is, only needing that blatantly spelled out for him.
"Quite appropriate timing. It is time for you to switch places with Master Robin," Alfred responds, his voice carrying across the stone. Then quieter, "Go on, dear lad. Drink your juice and find some way to entertain yourself for a few minutes."
Lost in thought, the young Robin nearly forgets to grab his glass as he passes Bruce entering the med bay.
"Up you go, Master Batman." Alfred gestures toward a cot.
"What's really going on, Agent A?" Batman crosses his arms, pointedly not getting on a cot.
"Nothing that concerns you."
"If it is related to Robin, it does concern me." The worried tone of his voice is the only reason Alfred doesn't scold his obstinate attitude, but he does raise an eyebrow in challenge.
Alfred conducts the physical, declares Bruce passed, but interrupts just as he stands to leave.
"Master Bruce?" Alfred lowers his voice as to not be heard by ears outside of the med bay. "At the luncheon today, did you partake of the entire menu?"
"You know I didn't drink, if that's what you're asking."
"The cake, sir," the butler corrects. "Did you consume any of the hazelnut chocolate cake?"
"Yes." Bruce's eyes are locked firmly on him, searching for the underlying reason for the question.
"Then unfortunately you and Master Robin most both refrain from patrolling tonight." Alfred strips the sheets from the cots and gets out a fresh set. "He is allergic to tree nuts after all, and if something were to happen, you would be unable to administer CPR."
"It's been hours since the luncheon." His brows draw together in suspicion. "I've drank plenty of water since and brushed my teeth. The chances of transferring enough of the allergen are—"
"Are you willing to take that chance?" Alfred crisply snaps the sheets taut. "What if Scarecrow attacks and you need to give your rebreather to the lad? What if you are the one to go down, and Master Robin is the one to give CPR to you, compromising the both of you in an effort to save your life?"
"Okay, no patrol." Bruce swallows once, and then moves to the sink. He uses a paper cup to swish his mouth out for good measure. "I can take Robin to a road course instead, teach him how to drive the Batmobile with the new pedal extenders."
"Lovely idea, good sir." Alfred plucks an Epi-Pen from a drawer and places it firmly into Bruce's hand. "Just in case, it would be best to have this on hand."
The butler gathers the soiled laundry.
"Alfred, this allergen concern wouldn't have anything to do with the impromptu medical evaluation, wouldn't it?" He says softly, his thumb rubbing the ridge of the cap. "Robin is okay?"
"The young lad is just fine," Alfred reassures him. "He only needs one night where he is looked after by a father before he returns to patrol."
"I'm not his father." Bruce looks at the doorway wistfully.
"Excuse me if I'm wrong, Master Bruce, but who is teaching Master Robin to drive?"
With that, Alfred takes his washings upstairs.
The sound of laughter over his comms accompanies him on his chores, the squeal of tires and the rumble of an engine faint in the background behind childlike glee and the slip of a rumbling chuckle. Once the sheets are laundered and folded, he returns them to their place in the med bay's linen closet.
Alfred grabs a handful of Epi-Pens and picks the lock of Robin's locker, slotting the pens into his backpack pocket. He makes careful note of their expiry dates and makes an entry in his planner to replenish the stock before then. He makes a pass through all of their med kits to double check the epinephrine vials are up-to-date.
The duo returns late that night after Alfred has finished prepping their snacks and sterilizing his equipment. Robin ravishes the tray of fruit, still avoiding the celery sticks Alfred notes (perhaps if next time Alfred adorns the vegetable with peanut butter and raisins he can convince the boy to try them). Bruce drops Robin off in the city (does this mean the lad takes the bus all the way back to Bristol each night? This certainly won't do) and returns, taking his usual spot at the Batcomputer to finalize his reports and detective work (Bruce also doesn't partake of the leftover celery).
"Master Bruce?" Alfred floats to the side of the desk, feather duster in hand. "Given the busy nature of our afternoon, I was unable to get your update on today's luncheon. How did the event fare from your side of the lawn?"
"We raised more than our goal, but every year I wonder if putting up with the Mayfields is worth their donation," Bruce groans, rubbing his temple before accidentally brushing a bruise and flinching. "I heard that there was a medical emergency near the kitchens though. Did one of the cooks cut themselves?"
"Oh, nothing of the sort." His duster flits around one of the far monitors. "It seems as though young Timothy Drake has quite the significant allergy, and it was neglected to be noted on his RSVP."
"Tim?" He abandons his case file instantly. "Is he okay?"
"Yes, I was able to administer epinephrine and assist him into an ambulance." Alfred lowers his duster slightly. "Though I have some concerns with the reactions of the Drakes themselves."
"How so?" Ah, here the detective is. Right as prompted.
"They hardly seemed concerned with their son until they discovered the nature of my employment," Alfred tuts, disapproval in the firm lines of his lips. "I do believe it would be prudent for you to look into our neighbors."
"As Bruce Wayne or Batman?"
"I'll leave that in your capable hands to discern."
With that, Alfred takes his leave, confident in his charge's ability to find his Robin among the trail of breadcrumbs left in his wake.
It has been far too long since the Manor has been filled with a child's laughter.