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Tim
I lift my glass of water, calling for a toast, and my mouth spreads into the practiced grin that I’ve perfected over a decade ago.
“On behalf of Wayne Enterprises, may I be the first to say how honored I am…” and that’s when I stop paying attention to what I’m saying. I’ve given enough speeches to go on autopilot, so I let my brain tune out as I sleepwalk through my speech.
This particular Wayne Foundation ball is going on hour five and if this event wasn’t connected to a new charity that I helped create, I would have escaped four and a half hours ago.
Setting up a charity that helps children with cancer and their families, has been rewarding to say the least, but I miscalculated somewhere, and here I am giving a speech as the ‘man of honor.’
“… as we strive toward a future that honors the noble path that Martha and Thomas Wayne started.”
There’s a round of applause and I gesture higher with my glass to punctuate the end of my speech. The polite applause is joined by Dick sticking his fingers in his mouth and whistling way too loudly to be appropriate for indoors, and Jason cupping his hands over his mouth and hooting like his favorite sports team just won.
My fake grin spreads into a real one and I’m on the verge of laughing. I take a sip of water to end the toast and prevent myself from laughing—the Joker will not be a part of this event. I scan the rest of the room, making sure to make eye contact and nod at a few random people as I keep sipping the water.
My pre-choreographed scan of the room stops at Bruce, right when the applause is the loudest. The plan is to extend my hand that isn’t holding the glass, and invite him on stage, but when my eyes lock on his, everything comes to a crashing halt.
Bruce’s jaw is set and there’s a shine in the corner of his eyes and… oh.
Oh no.
I think my speech made Batman cry.
Oh my God! I shouldn’t have brought up his parents. Why did I bring up his parents?!
Okay. Everything’s fine. I can fix this. I just need to run some damage control. And if all else fails, I’ll break into LexCorp tonight and steal a time machine. I don’t know if Lex Luthor has a time machine, but it just seems like something a supervillain like him would have.
The glass of water is still at my lips, so I shift my gaze back to Jason and Dick. I tap my pinkie on the glass twice. Jason twitches, instantly understanding the hand signal for I need a distraction. He reaches for the gun concealed in his suit jacket. I really hope that his target is an inanimate object like the hideous ice sculpture on the West facing table. I commend the ice sculptor on his talent in making my likeness out of ice, but it’s unsettling to say the least.
I never get the find out if Jason’s target is my frozen doppelganger, because Dick presses a button on his watch and the music from the sound system springs to life, shocking even the DJ. Jason frowns as he retracts his hand from his jacket, and all the guests settle into a relaxed vibe.
I step off the stage and give one more look in Bruce’s direction, but he’s disappeared into the crowd. Before I can give that too much thought, Dick reaches me, and wraps his arm around my shoulders.
“Great speech Timmy. You’re wasting your talents in the R&D lab. You could easily be on the corporate CEO track.”
“That’ll never happen,” I say, trying to shrug away from Dick’s arm. “If my dad found out I was working toward becoming the head of Bruce Wayne’s Corporation, I think his head would explode. There’s no one in the world that inspires more jealous rage in Jack Drake, than Bruce. When I was young, I literally thought Bruce’s full name was Bruce Freakin’ Wayne. It’s embarrassing how old I was when I realized that freakin’ wasn’t Bruce’s middle name.”
I manage to escape the arm that Dick slung over my shoulders, only for Jason to ruffle my hair.
“Why did ya need the distraction?” he asks.
“I, um, I made Bruce cry.”
“Real man tears?” Dick pipes in.
“Well, kinda. He was tearing up. And I didn’t want to call him up next to me because if he did start to cry, someone would have caught that on their phone and the top news story would be all about Bruce Wayne having an emotional breakdown and not being fit to run Wayne Enterprises.”
Dick cracks his neck.
“Poor B. I’ve got to track him down while he’s still in enough emotional limbo to be tricked into a hug. In the meantime, since I was the one that saved the day, you can take over my babysitting duties for the night.”
He points to the table behind him.
“Have fun, Timmy,” he adds ominously as he and Jason walk away.
I quickly realize the ‘babies’ that need sitting are Damian and his best friend Jon.
Damian’s sitting with his arms crossed and a Batman-level scowl on his face, while Jon is dancing in his seat to the music like no one’s watching.
Jon Kent, the son of Superman, is Damian’s best friend. As unlikely as their friendship is, it makes sense. Bruce had gifted Damian with a comfort dog named Titus to help the little assassin relax and act more like a normal kid, but Titus is more of an attack dog than a cuddly companion. It did nothing to make Damian softer. The one thing that actually did smooth the sharp edges of the kid’s bristly exterior was Jon. Jon’s the human embodiment of a loveable puppy. Well, the half human half Kryptonian embodiment. But regardless, Jon makes Damian fifty percent less bristly just by being around him.
As I walk over, Jon whispers something to Damian, and Bruce junior’s perma-scowl turns into a smirk. He looks over at me and when I’m close enough to their table, he furrows his eyebrows, “I do not need a babysitter. Why does Richard treat me like a child?”
“Because you’re nine, Damian. You are a child.”
Damian’s brows are still furrowed as he reaches over and fixes my hair, muttering, “Jason is a menace. He does the same thing to my hair. It is unacceptable.”
I’m not sure if Damian is making my hair look better or worse after Jason’s previous hair ruffling, but I accept the help and give him a nod as a thank you.
I turn my attention to Jon, to scold him for using his superhearing to eavesdrop, but he’s smiling at me like I’m the coolest person in the world.
He starts to giggle, “I’ve never had this much sugar in my life! There were trays filled with candies and chocolates and I ate like a whole two trays. I think I have a super sugar rush. I’m Super-sugar-rush-man.”
Something tells me that Dick knew about this development before he handed over babysitting duties.
Jon’s smile is so wide, it’s almost as sweet as the ungodly amount of sugar that he consumed.
Damian clears his throat, “I need to use the restroom. I will return shortly.”
I nod as he leaves and Jon proceeds to tell me about every individual candy he ate. He’s up to the ninth piece—he’s been listing them off on his fingers—when his eyes shift over to the right for a second. He pauses for just over a second, and then goes back to describing candy number nine.
I’ve had hundreds of Robin protocols drilled into my head, so Jon’s odd behavior doesn’t go unnoticed. I become hyperaware of how tight his voice has become. He’s also using filler words—too many extra um, uh, and likes—meaning that he’s distracted. His superhearing is picking up on something.
I study Jon’s micromovements more than his words, and the detective part of me is screaming. I could just ask him what’s wrong, but I tend to always do things the difficult and convoluted way, so I continue to study his behavior for clues.
Abruptly, Jon bites his lip, “Um, can I be excused? I need to go. Like right now.”
Maybe I’m off the mark. Maybe paranoia has me convinced that Jon’s odd behavior is because he’s hiding some secret, rather than the more probable cause of a stomachache from eating too much sugar.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, just too much soda, I guess,” he says as he squirms in his seat. His eyes frantically dart toward the restroom.
The Robin training kicks in, and I can spot the lie instantly, but I tell him to go anyway. He practically runs away, and I give him a bit of a lead before I follow my instincts and go after him. I really hope that Damian isn’t passed out on the Men’s room tile, but Jon takes a quick right hand turn, passing by the restrooms entirely.
I knew something was up!
Jon has superhearing so I use as much stealth as I can, masking the sound my footsteps as I walk, but the party’s loud and the kid’s distracted, so I don’t even think he notices that I’m following him.
He stops in front of Damian and whispers, “You can’t do this.”
“Do what?” I ask.
Jon whips around, blocking Damian, but not before I see Damian hide something under his shirt—pulling his suit jacket closed to further conceal whatever he has stashed in there.
Jon gives me his best puppy dog grin, “Hi Tim.”
“Don’t hi me. What are you hiding?” I reach out my hand, palm side up. “C’mon. Give it to me. Are you two sneaking more candy?”
Damian ties to hide a pained grimace with a scowl, but it doesn’t get past me, “This is none of your business, Drake.”
“Dami, are you hurt?”
“Do not call me Dami. And I’m—I’m fine.”
He winces, followed by a sharp inhale.
I keep my voice as calm as I can, “If you’re hurt, you need to tell me.”
“…”
“Damian?”
“You can’t tell Father.”
At this point Damian’s pitching forward and it’s obvious that he’s in pain. His voice is strained and desperate, “Please. Promise me you won’t tell Father.”
I don’t want to agree to those terms, but my only other option involves watching helplessly as the kid bleeds out from a knife wound, or a gunshot wound, or whatever’s painful enough to make the pint-sized assassin wince in pain. It’s gotta be bad.
“You have my word,” I say solemnly.
“Thank you, Timothy.” He pulls up his shirt to reveal… a lobster?!
“What the hell?!” I shriek.
I know shrieking is a little dramatic, but Damian just pulled out a live lobster from under his shirt.
“Damian,” I take a moment to search for the right words—to search for any words. “I thought you were dying. Like, from being stabbed. Why do you—? How did you—?”—deep breaths, Tim—"How did I not see that crawling under your shirt?”
“I was holding it tightly. Which is why he kept clawing at me.”
Jason’s scoffs from behind me, “Correction. He is actually a she.”
I blame Jason’s ability to sneak up behind me on the fact that I was too distracted by the marine life that Damian produced from under his shirt.
I shake my head. “First of all, the lobster’s gender is not the issue right now. And how do you even know that the lobster’s female?”
Jason points to the lobster, “See right there underneath?”
Jon shakes his head rapidly and blushes, “We shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“Don’t you live on a farm? You should know all about animals,” Jason counters.
I hold up my hands. “Stop. We need to focus. First things first. Damian, where did you get the lobster and why were you hiding it under your shirt?”
“I needed to free her. She was being held captive in a tank. They plan on slaughtering her. I cannot sit idly by as that happens. I was inspired by your speech, Timothy. You said that we need to help the less fortunate. That it is our duty as those with resources to help the unfortunate.”
“Hell yeah,” Jason snorts, “If we’re gonna fight the power, then I’m down with Grand Theft Lobster.”
Damian’s bravery crumbles and he looks like he’s about to cry.
I kneel down to be eye-level with him and he starts to confess.
“Father is upset with me. Yesterday there was an incident with one of the school pets and I have been suspended for the duration of one week.”
“Did you set one of the pet hamsters free?” I ask.
“Not exactly. Releasing an animal into the wild that is not used to anything other than a controlled habitat would most certainly lead to death.
“I found out that Mrs. Abraham’s fifth grade class had a pet chipmunk, and I was told that the chipmunk was not being treated correctly, so I placed a call to the local humane society. As it turns out, I had been given incorrect information, but by the time I realized this fact, I had placed the call and the animal rights officer was threatening to close the school for further investigation. It took Father’s most persuasive arguments to prevent the school from getting shut down—perhaps permanently—and I had to fake cry as well. Needless to say, it was not an ideal situation.”
“I’m guessing you’re punished?”
Damian nods, “No phone, no internet, and no patrolling until further notice. My attendance at this event was required, and Jon was already invited as my guest, but technically I’m grounded as well. Plus, the chipmunk was still taken away, so when I return to school I will be known as the student who caused the class pet to be confiscated. If the fifth-grade class didn’t hate me before, they now have a legitimate reason to. Furthermore, if Father finds out I have tried to extract another creature from what I perceive is an unsafe environment, I believe he may enforce an even harsher punishment.”
“What’s the Chipmunk’s name?” I ask.
“Alvin.”
“Of course, it is. I’m sure Alvin is in a much better place. I’m sure he’s thriving.”
“I tried that,” Damian says with the ghost of a smirk, “I told Father that as Robin I am obligated to save those who have no voice to challenge their oppression. That Alvin is in a more appropriate environment. That did not go over as well as I expected.”
I look at Jason and he shrugs. So, I guess we’re helping the kids smuggle a lobster out of the charity ball.
I take the lead and send Jon and Damian to the bathroom, to wrap wet paper towel around the lobster so she doesn’t dry out. I send Jason to tell Dick that Damian doesn’t feel well and we’re taking him back the house.
We can’t store the lobster in Wayne Manor without Bruce finding out—and my apartment is too far away—so we’ll keep her at Drake Manor. My parents are overseas for the next two months and I’m the one that takes care of the finances for my apartment and the Manor, so I can house the lobster in whatever kind of tank setup she needs without too much static their end.
Jon and Damian return before Jason does, so we head to the car, and I text Jason to meet us in the parking garage.
Damian slips the lobster under his shirt for a final time when we have to talk to the valet to get the car, but when we get inside, he puts the lobster in the backseat between him and Jon.
I look at Jon and sigh. If his dad, Mr. Good Guy, ever finds out he’s gonna kill me. Clark thinks everything that involves Batman is a bad influence, and we’re kinda proving his point.
Jon grins at me, riding high off sugar and theft.
“Can we name her Jennifer? I think that’s an awesome lobster name,” he says as he pokes the lobster. “Do you like your new name, Jennifer?”
The lobster snaps at him. Not-Jennifer is pretty feisty.
I look at Damian through the rearview mirror.
“You’ve been really quiet, Damian. Are you okay?”
He shakes his head, “I feel—I feel not at my best.”
“Are you nervous about Bruce?”
“No, not nervous. I feel unwell.”
I turn my head to look over the headrests to see the real Damian instead of his reflection. He’s sweating quite a bit and his tan skin has a reddish tint to it. His breathing is uneven and I’m sure if I ask Jon, he’ll tell me his heartbeat is accelerated.
I stretch my arm so I can place the back on my hand on Damian’s forehead. His forehead is sweaty, but not feverish. He’s also scratching his arm. The area he’s scratching is irritated, but I’m not sure if it’s a rash or if it’s just red from scratching.
I’m sure that he’ll downplay his symptoms if I ask him outright, so I play this a little different.
“Robin, report.”
His posture stiffens and he clears his throat.
“Shortly after you and Jason arrived, my body started to feel itchy. I feel lightheaded as well.”
He pauses before adding, “And it’s becoming increasingly hard to breathe. In fact, it hurts to breathe.”
I punch the glove compartment open and frantically toss all the takeout plastic fork and knife packages aside. I stretch my arm as far as it will go so I can blindly reach all the way to the back of the collection of random things in there.
“When did it start getting hard to breathe, kiddo?” I ask.
“I’ve been instructed by the League of Assassins on how to self-correct any and all potential weaknesses. I’m skilled in over twenty different breathing techniques.”
My fingers brush the edge of the pill bottle, “Didn’t ask for your resume Dames, just need to know when the symptom started.”
“I do not remember,” he says with an unguarded honesty.
I pop off the safety cap of the pill bottle with my thumb.
“Have you ever eaten lobster before? I think you may be allergic.” I add the next part under my breath, “Leave it to Bruce’s son to get an allergic reaction from being bitten by a lobster instead of actually biting one.”
I shake the Benadryl bottle and a pink pill lands onto my palm, but I’m interrupted by the sound of sniffling. I look up to see Damian crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Damian cry.
His breath hitches as he wipes away tears, “I do not know why I am crying. I do not feel like myself.”
I open the door and climb in the backseat next to him. The kid buries his head against my chest, and I try to calm him down.
“It’s alright,” I say while rubbing his back, “When I get really sick, I don’t feel like myself either. It’s nothing to be scared—” he tenses at the word, so I correct myself, “It’s nothing to be concerned about. I promise that when you take some medicine, you’ll feel better. When something as easy as breathing hurts, it can be a little overwhelming, but it’ll stop hurting soon.”
“Promise?” he asks lifting his head to look up at me.
“Promise.”
He takes the pill while I nudge my head toward the front seat, signaling for Jon to move the lobster up there. Jon understands my silent request and moves the lobster to the front passenger seat.
Damian snuggles next to me, and I can feel his body relaxing, but the sniffling sounds are coming from a little further away this time. Jon has tears streaming down his face and he looks at me with silent whimpers.
I’m about to try to calm him down when the front door opens and Jason climbs inside.
“Really, Tim? I leave you alone for like two minutes and you’ve already made two kids cry? Nice work buddy. Also, what’s wrong with little D? And why is there a lobster riding shotgun?”
“Answering your questions in the order you asked: Only one kid is crying. Damian’s having an allergic reaction to the lobster, and he says it hurts to breathe, and the passenger seat is a good distance away from causing his symptoms to get worse.”
“You got this handled?” he asks.
“Yes. If you could drive us to Drake Manor, I’ll take care of things back here.”
Jason presses the remote start and pulls out of the parking garage.
Damian’s breathing is still incredibly labored. He wheezes painfully and shivers against me. I continue to rub his back as Jason races down the street.
Jason adjusts the rearview mirror, so he can frown at me.
“Your car is a mess. There’s like twenty takeout containers on the floor next to me.”
“I wasn’t expecting to carpool the three of you and Jennifer.”
“Who the fuck is Jennifer?”
Jon chimes in, “She’s the lobster. But I don’t think she likes that name. She snapped at me when I called her that.”
“She’s traumatized by all the takeout containers. It reminds her of her almost food fate,” Jason says with a smirk.
I roll my eyes, “She’s a lobster. I don’t think she has that level of self-awareness.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Jason says with a shrug, “I’m just surprised you losers didn’t name it something stupid like Bat-lobster.” The car makes a sudden swerve. “Shit! Bat-lobster’s on my leg.”
Jon reaches through the armrest space to move Bat-lobster—I mean Jennifer—off Jason’s leg and back onto the passenger seat.
“Put on your seatbelt,” Jason yells back, “And thanks.”
Jon clicks on his seatbelt as Jason clicks on the blinker. The tires skid as he takes a right turn too quickly. Thankfully, Jon was able to fasten his seatbelt, but the lobster goes airborne and flies up on top of the dashboard.
Damian gasps, triggering a round of painful wheezing.
“Everyone’s alright,” I assure Damian, “Bat-lobster is resilient.”
Jason straightens the wheel with one hand and picks up the lobster with his other.
“She’s fine,” he says as he plunks her back down on the seat, “This is the second time she’s cheated death.”
Damian lifts his head from my shoulder and speaks with a raspy voice, “It is getting easier to breath. Also, because she has cheated death, her name is now Jason the lobster.” He rests his head back on my shoulder.
“Hell yeah,” Jason laughs, “The world needs more kickass Jasons.”
Damian’s breathing eventually evens out until he’s almost snoring in synch with Jon. I had a feeling the eventual crash from Jon’s epic sugar rush would hit hard.
Jason keeps his voice low, so he doesn’t wake up either of the kids, “Update on the alien gremlin and the demon brat?”
“The Benadryl knocked Damian out, but he’s breathing normally again. There’s still a rash around his neck and his arms, but I think the worst is over. Jon’s in a sugar induced coma, so he’ll be fine. And from this angle, it looks like Jason-the-Lobster is sleeping peacefully too.”
“Cool. Why aren’t we driving to your apartment instead of your old home? Don’t you have a giant aquarium in your bachelor pad?”
“Jason would eat all the other fish.”
“We’re really naming the lobster Jason?”
“Sure. Until Alfred discovers her and makes grilled lobster for dinner.”