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Tim hates galas.
His tuxedos are always too tight, the guests are always too loud, and his parents always stay too late. Plus, most of the time, the reason for the gala isn’t even interesting. For example, tonight the cause for celebration is the 75th anniversary of Astor Holdings being in business. He supposes that’s impressive, but it seems like the kind of thing that the Astors and their employees would celebrate with a golf outing or something, not by inviting every socialite in the greater Gotham metropolitan area.
Tonight sucks even more so than usual, too, because there are almost no other kids here. Not that Tim really hangs out with peers at these things, but standing among a group of other young teens and laughing along with the gossip was still so much better than what he was doing now. He had already made his rounds, glued to his parents’ hips as they showed him off and bragged to the other attendees about just how well their son was doing in his classes. After dinner, though, he had been shooed off so that Janet and Jack could discuss business. "Adult talk," as it were.
Tim can only hole himself up in one of the venue’s bathrooms for so long before someone starts to suspect he’s having bowel problems or worse, being anti-social. Which, well, he is, but he doesn’t really think that he can be blamed for not wanting to talk to people who were, at minimum, twenty years older than him.
And so he finds himself camped out in a corner by the hors d’oeuvres table, hoping he can fly under the radar until his parents are ready to go home for the night. At least his position allow him unlimited access to sampling the menu that’s been catered for the evening. Every ten or so minutes he’ll sneak up to the table and grab whatever looks the most interesting from the spread before him. Currently, he’s working on something that looks like a meatball, but definitely doesn’t taste like a meatball.
“Hey little man, you enjoying yourself over here?” Tim almost chokes on his not-meatball mid-swallow at the sudden address. “Woah! Woah, easy there buddy. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Sorry!” Tim says after he’s successfully stifled his mini coughing fit. “I just wasn’t anticipating that.”
“Nah, that’s my bad. I should have expected that sort of reaction. Do you need some water or anything?”
“No, really, I’m okay. I couldn’t ask you to do that for me.” Tim says, still wiping the unshed tears from his eyes.
The man laughs. “I mean, you totally can. That’s kinda the whole reason I’m here.” It’s then that Tim finally has the presence of mind to turn and look at the person he’s been talking to. He’s pretty average looking, with closely cropped brown hair, gray eyes, and the type of face you wouldn't think anything of if you passed him in the street. His unremarkableness is only heightened by the nondescript black vest and bowtie he's wearing, indicative of him belonging to the catering staff. Tim can feel his face heats up in embarrassment.
“I-I’m okay.” Tim repeats.
“I mean, if you’re sure.” The man acquiesces. “I just wanted to check up on you. Couldn’t help but notice that you’ve kinda been hiding out over here for the last hour or so.”
If it’s even possible, Tim feels his face grow even redder. Great, now even the staff know how much of a loser he is.
“I, uh, really like the food?” Tim tries. “You guys did a good job with it, so thank you.”
“Yeah? Well that’s good to hear. I don’t actually make it, but I’ll be sure to tell the chefs that it lived up to your standards.”
“You don’t make the food? What do you do then?” Tim realizes he’s probably showing his rich person naivete with that question, but he can’t help it. Whenever his parents hire people to cook for special occasions, they always help in serving it too. He figured it was the same for galas, though never really questioned the logistics of it.
“Me? Not much, honestly. I usually walk around with trays of champagne until it’s time to start cutting people off.” As if to punctuate his statement, Ms. Clifton stumbles as she struggles to walk away from a conversation with the mayor. The timing of it can’t help but make Tim snicker. “Which is right about now, I’d say.”
“Yeah, she’s always drunk at these things. Her and Bruce Wayne.” Tim knows that Mr. Wayne doesn’t actually drink at galas. He’s seen him pouring enough glasses of expensive scotch into potted plants over the years to know he’s not consuming nearly enough alcohol warrant the way he staggers around the banquet hall at the end of the night. Still, he'll play along with Mr. Wayne's charade. If Batman wants his cover story to be that he's an idiot playboy, then who's Tim to ruin it for him?
“Good to know, thanks for the heads up. I guess I’ll have to keep my eye out for the two of them the next time I work one of these things then, huh?”
“Oh… are you new?”
Once you'd gone to enough of these things, like Tim had, this sort of thing was just common knowledge.
“Sorta. I’ve been with the company for about three months now, but it’s my first time working one of these swanky events. They gotta vet you before you’re allowed to work on the 'big clients,' so to speak. Need to make sure you won’t say something offensive or spill something on a dress worth three times your paycheck, y’know?” Tim nods. He'd never thought of it that way before, but it made perfect sense in hindsight.
“Yeah. It’s kind of like how my parents gave me etiquette lessons before I was allowed to attend my first gala.”
The caterer laughs. “Probably something like that. Speaking of parents, where are yours? I would figure that they'd want you where they could see you.”
“Oh, um, they’re over there.” Tim gestures towards where his parents are currently schmoozing with a state representative and her husband. “They’re really into these sort of things.”
“And let me guess, you’re not?”
“Maybe I would be, if there were actually people to hang out with.” He grumbles and immediately hates how much like a pout it sounds. It's a good thing his mother isn't around to hear it.
“Oof, that doesn’t sound fun.”
“It’s not that bad…” The man raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Okay, yeah, it sucks. My parents always stay late too, so even if there are other people my age, I have to stick around when everyone else gets to goes home. Hence…” Tim gestures vaguely.
“Hence hiding out by the snack table?”
“Yeah.”
“I hear that, little man. I spent more than my fair share of parties in high school camped out in the kitchen. Though, I’ve found that having a friend can certainly make the time go by faster.”
“A friend?”
“Exactly. You seem like you could use someone to talk to and, boom, I’m someone who’s stuck at this thing just as much as you are.”
At first, Tim’s not sure what to make of the offer. It’s true that Tim’s bored to near tears at the prospect of standing here by himself for the next few hours until his parents have had their fill of socializing. He’s not even allowed his phone to pretend to text friends he barely has, his mother confiscating it before they left the house to prevent him from “having his nose stuck in it all night.” Having a conversation partner where he doesn’t have to worry about upper-class pleasantries and avoiding social faux pas sounds like heaven right about now.
Still, it strikes him as a bit odd that this person seems interested in hanging out with a twelve year old. That’s weird right? Or maybe it’s not. Maybe he's just trying to make the best out of a sucky situation, the same as him. Tim knows that his parents never allow the staff to socialize or even have their phones out when their working. It’s probably the same for these event workers. If the caterer talks with Tim, though, he’s not technically breaking any rules and can play off any interactions as simply going above and beyong for great customer service. It’d be something of a symbiotic relationship for the two of them, each of them helping to stave the other’s boredom.
Tim makes up his mind.
“Okay, but if we’re gonna be friends we should at least know each others’ names. I’m Tim, Tim Drake.” He holds out his hand for a handshake that’s probably much too formal for the situation. Thankfully, instead of commenting, the man just smiles.
“Nice to meet you, Tim. I’m Spencer.” He takes Tim’s hand and gives it a hardy shake. “I look forward to getting to us getting to know each other.
Over the next few weeks, Tim sees Spencer a lot. It’s gala season and his parents are in town for the period of Thanksgiving to New Years to make sure they don’t miss out on critical networking opportunities. Of course, Tim is dragged along, so he goes to a ridiculous amount of galas within the span of six weeks. Apparently the catering company that the Astors used for their event is popular with the Gotham elite, too, as Tim’s seen Spencer at a good eighty percent of them.
Generally the first half of the event sees Tim and Spencer carrying out their own responsibilities. Tim’s parents show him off and then, if there are other kids in attendance, he lingers near them. Spencer, in turn, dutifully walks around the venue, silently offering champagne or the night’s signature cocktail to anyone of legal drinking age. Then after the responsible adults have had their nannies take their kids home and the less-responsible adults have crossed the line from tipsy to actually drunk, Tim and Spencer convene, ready to ride out the remainder of the night together.
Like Spencer said, the two have definitely gotten to know each other better through these evenings. Spencer, Tim has learned, is a nineteen year old recent high school graduate. This is his second job, with his first being working in “the family business.” Apparently, he needs the extra cash since whatever this business is, it’s going through a bit of a rough patch. Why Spencer needs to work so much, Tim doesn’t know, but he feels it would be a bit rude to ask, especially into financial matters. His mom always said that it was impolite to talk about money openly, so Tim keeps his mouth shut.
Spencer is also really cool. He’s into a lot of things that Tim is. When Tim brought up his Warlocks and Warriors campaign he wanted to run, Spencer thought it was really cool. The next time they met up, Spencer told him stories about his own W&W character. When Tim told him about his photography hobby, Spencer seemed genuinely interested, asking about the specs of his camera. When Tim talked about how he was trying to learn how to do a heelflip, Spencer mentioned how he’d been skateboarding for a couple years now and Tim’s skill level was impressive for his age.
In turn, Tim's gained something of a confidant. He’s talked about some of his difficulties connecting with the other kids in his grade, especially now that Ives moved school districts. He’s also told Spencer about how invisible he feels to his parents sometimes. About how his parents travel a lot--though he would never say just how little supervision he’s left with, Tim’s not trying to get child services called on him--and how much he’s dreading that first week of January, where his parents will Jet off to Jordan while he's left behind.
“I’m sure your parents still care about you, though.” Spencer said that fourth gala, in what Tim guesses is his best attempt at reassurance.
“I mean, I know they love me and want me to be safe and happy, just… sometimes I wonder if they think about me when I’m not around.”
“Don’t say that, little man. I’m sure your parents would miss you if you were gone.”
“Maybe. I mean, it would definitely look bad if they didn’t, but they’re not really the best at showing it.”
After that, Tim had changed the subject, not wanting to start crying in public. Spencer was nice about it and let the topic drop. That’s another reason Tim liked him so much. He didn’t poke and prod when Tim said stuff like this, not like other adults did. He let them sit and just be.
Spencer didn’t even pry when once, after some dedication of a new wing in the Gotham Museum of Art, Tim couldn't find his parents. He had spent a good fifteen minutes searching every corner of the wing, before he approached Spencer and mumbled out a pitiful explanation on how his parents had lefy without him. He expected pity; he expected scrambling and panic. Spencer gave him none of that. Instead, he offered to call them for him. When that didn’t work--just as Tim expected, his parents never answered calls from numbers they didn’t recognize and purposefully did not have a voice mail set up, stating that they would pick up any call that was truly important--he offered Tim a drive home.
Admittedly, Tim was a little nervous about accepting a ride from Spencer, but his house was over a three hour walk away through downtown Gotham at night. Tim knew from experience that none of the buses ran to Bristol at this late of an hour. Plus, Tim really wasn't in the mood to get mugged. Normally, when he was out at night, he could wear a hoodie and blend in, but in his one-of-a-kind tailored suit, he’d practically be a flashing sign saying “I have money! Come rob and/or kidnap me!” So he took the risk and thankfully it paid off.
Spencer had simply punched Tim's address into his GPS, drove him up to his front gate, and idled in the road until he saw him slip through the wrought iron gate in the driveway. He even let Tim pick the radio station on the ride over. All in all, it was probably the best possible outcome that could have happened from that sticky situation. He got home safe and he didn’t have to worry about his parents being upset by whatever bad press they might have gotten otherwise.
He’s definitely going to miss him once gala season is over. Maybe he’ll give him his phone number so they can stay in touch even when Tim’s not being stuffed in tuxes and being showed off like a purebred at a dog show. Maybe that would be overstepping a boundary, though? Spencer’s said that they’re friends, but Tim doesn’t know if they’re actual friends or friends of convenience. He has a hard time believing they’d talk at all if it weren’t for their mutual boredom.
For right now, though,Tim’s content in spending time with Spencer and tries not to focus on all the “what-ifs” surrounding their time together.
“I’m surprised it’s not that cold out tonight.” Spencer remarks. Despite what he says, his breath still makes a visible cloud as he exhales. It mingles with the smoke of the cigarette he’s been working on for the past few minutes. “Last New Year’s I think it was snowing something awful.”
“I remember that. My parent’s flight was delayed a whole sixteen hours because of it. Dad wasn’t very happy.” Tim squints into the night. “I hope it doesn’t snow again.”
“Your folks got a flight in the morning, right? I think I remember you mentioning that last week.”
“Yeah. They always try to fly out New Year’s Day. My mom says that the rates can be pricey, but it lets them get a start on whatever dig they’ve been away from faster, so it’s worth it.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
Tim shrugs. “It’s whatever. I’m used to it.”
Spencer and Tim are currently standing on a balcony located right off the side of the largest ballroom in Wayne Manor. It overlooks the sprawling backyard gardens of the property and Tim can't help but wish he had his camera to snap a picture. Out here, the sounds of the New Year's party are nothing but faint background noise. When Spencer had originally suggested they go outside for a little fresh air to escape the louder-than-normal cacophony of the gala guests, Tim had been more than happy to oblige. The night chill, while biting, is still much better than having to deal with the chaos indoors.
“I’m going to miss this.” Tim says unprompted, and immediately feels like an idiot. "I mean, I hate gala season and all these events and stuff, obviously, but I'm going to miss getting to do stuff like this. I'm going to miss... you." He finishes lamely, knowing the tips of his ears are red from a reason other than the cold.
“Aww, you make it sound like we’re never gonna see each other again.” Spencer takes another puff off his cigarette. “But yeah, I’m gonna miss hanging out with you too, little man.” He reaches up his free hand and ruffles Tim’s hair, mussing it from where it’s been carefully gelled into place. Somehow, Tim can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he just laughs.
“Hey, stop it!”
“Hmm, well if you say so… Oops, my hand slipped.” He gives Tim another good ruffle that Tim can only half-heartedly try to escape from. After a few seconds of that, he finally lets up.
“But really. I am going to miss you.” Tim tries again. He might be making a bit of a fool of himself, but he has to put it out there. Maybe if he can get Spencer to bring up the idea of them staying in contact, he’ll have some hope for the coming months.
“Well, don’t start missing me yet, we still have,” Spencer checks his cheap Casio watch before exclaiming, “Shit- it’s fifteen minutes to midnight. I need to get back in there.”
In one swift action, he’s stamping out his half-finished cigarette on the banister. He then feels around his pockets, pulling out a container of mints. He inspects the tin before taking one out and popping it in his mouth before turning to Tim.
“You want one?”
“I don’t need one. I wasn’t the one smoking.”
“Yeah, but do you want one?”
‘Not particularly.’ Is Tim’s thought.
“Sure.” He says, instead. He doesn’t want to be rude, especially since this is probably the last time they’ll see each other. He doesn't want their time together to end on a denial. Also Spencer, for some reason, seems to really want for him to take one. It's for that reason, more than any other, that Tim accepts.
“Cool.” Spencer shakes the tin slightly, before plucking one out and handing it to him. Tim doesn’t hesitate before placing it in his mouth. Admittedly, it doesn’t taste very good. The mint flavor is there, but for some reason there’s deep undertones of bitterness present. Spencer seems to be enjoying his just fine, though, so Tim chalks it up to him not having quite as refined of a palate and simply sucks it up. It’s a mint. He can handle the funky taste for the few minutes it’ll be in his mouth.
Spencer fans the air around him in an attempt to mitigate the smoke smell clinging to him. Then, he reenters the ballroom, with Tim following closely after. As Spencer moves back to the kitchen to grab his champagne tray, Tim takes up his regular post near the buffet table, but not before grabbing a bottle of water to wash the truly god-awful mint down.
It only takes a few minutes of people watching for Tim to notice that he’s sweating, like, a lot. The temperature difference between outside and within the people-packed ballroom must have been a shock to his system. He’ll cool down once his body reacclimates, he tell himself, as he continues to sip from his water bottle. He’s half tempted to take off his suit jacket but knowing the lecture he’d receive from his mom from that action, he ultimately opts against it. Still, he’s just so hot. How is nobody else burning up?
The other attendees are laughing with each other, as put together as always. Even Spencer, who was just outside with Tim, is gliding seamlessly around the room, never missing a step.
Tim grabs another water from the table along with a napkin to dab his forehead with. Maybe he’s starting to come down with something? His symptoms have come on quickly, but that’s really the only explanation he can think of for why his body feels this way right now. The nausea that’s beginning to brew in his stomach also supports this theory. He definitely won’t be eating any more canapes tonight, that’s for sure.
As the clock approaches midnight, Bruce Wayne steps up to the microphone in the front of the room. Tim makes an attempt to listen to the toast he’s starting, but at this point it’s taking all of his effort to keep his hands steady enough to keep drinking his water. What on earth is going on? He’s gotten the flu every year since he was three, and none of those times even hold a candle to this feeling that’s onset within the last fifteen minutes.
Maybe it’s food poisoning? Tim’s never had it, but Tim’s heard it can be pretty nasty. The caterers hired are some of the best in Gotham, but that doesn’t mean they can’t still make mistakes. Or what if this is some sort of allergic reaction. Maybe there’s some rare ingredient in the food that no one knew he was allergic to because he’d never had it before. Maybe-
As Tim spirals, the countdown starts. With each number yelled, Tim feels a spike of pain in his forehead. This only serves to make the nausea worse. By the time the entire party is shouting “Happy New Year!” Tim swears that he’s on the verge of barfing and passing out, maybe at the same time. He’s shaking with the sheer effort it’s taking to keep upright.
“Happy New Year, little man!” Spencer exclaims, clapping Tim on the back. This, of course, sends Tim stumbling forward. He’d probably have faceplanted, had Spencer not grabbed caught him by the arm and pulled him back. “Woah! Easy there. You feeling alright?”
“I-” Even moving his mouth to speak seems to take a herculean effort. “Sick.”
“Yeah, you look it. Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Relief floods through Tim as Spencer loops his arm around Tim’s back and guides him towards a side hall that, while technically available to the public, hardly sees much use. He’s thankful that Spencer sticks close to the walls and doesn’t draw attention to the issue. The only thing worse than being sick at one of the biggest galas of the year is to be seen being sick at one of the biggest galas of the year.
At this point, Spencer is practically dragging him. Tim can’t even move his legs enough to stumble along. His arms are spaghetti, his legs are jelly, and his brain is well on its way to being mush. This… this isn’t normal. What’s happening to him?
There’s a small keening noise, and it takes Tim a half second longer than it should for him to realize that he’s the one making it.
“Shh, shh, quiet down.” Spencer says, but instead of the comfort Tim’s expecting, his tone borders on annoyance. Before long, they finally reach their destination: a bathroom at the very end of the hallway. It’s isolated. Nobody will be down here for a while, if anyone comes this way tonight at all.
That’s… a good thing. Nobody will see Tim like this. That’s good, right?
For some reason, Tim’s starting to doubt that.
As soon as he opens the door, Spencer releases his hold of Tim. Lacking the ability to catch himself, Tim’s head smacks against the side of the sink and then rebounds off the ground. His vision swims for a few seconds, before trying, and ultimately failing, to refocus. The fact that the room is still dark does nothing to help matters.
He wants to ask what’s happening, why Spencer’s doing this, but he can’t form any words. All he can do is make small noises from the back of throat and even that feels difficult.
He has a pretty good idea anyway. Tim’s so dumb. Of course Spencer hadn’t wanted to be his friend. He’d had all the safety lessons about stranger danger. Run away, avoid, tell a trusted adult. Definitely don't allow him to take you to a secondary location. But after a certain point, Spencer wasn’t a stranger anymore. He was a friend. They laughed and talked and had inside jokes. He gave Tim ideas for his English essay. He had even given him a ride home and nothing had happened then, so why now?
Maybe because it wasn't the right time. Tim wasn’t paralyzed then. While he’s certainly not the most fit twelve year old, he likes to think he could put up a pretty decent fight. Or at least enough of a fight to make it an undesirable prospect. That's probably what Spencer thought too. But now, he’s laying on the floor of a secluded bathroom, drugged and unable to cry out loud enough for anyone to hear.
Because that’s what he is: drugged. Tim literally took candy from a stranger and has to deal with the consequences. God, he’s so stupid. His parents and teachers always praised him for his intelligence, but they shouldn't have. He’s fallen for one of the biggest clichés to exist and now he’s paying for his mistake.
Hopefully it’ll be quick. He knows that he can still feel pain thanks to the throbbing on this temple, but maybe he’ll be able to disassociate. Or pass out. Either would be welcome. It’d be better than experiencing whatever Spencer wants to put him through.
Tim waits and waits for Spencer to grab him. To touch him. To run his hand through his hair in some fake show of intimacy and begin a nightmare Tim never considered as a possible reality. The touch never comes, though. Instead, Tim feels the pressure of a foot in his side, pushing him further into the room. Once Tim's body is completely inside the bathroom, he stops.
“Stay put.” Spencer commands, like Tim has a choice in the matter, and then pulls the door shut behind him, leaving Tim alone in the darkness.
The cold of the tile on his face does little to help soothe the unbearable heat he’s feeling. He’s still sweating buckets, definitely ruining the Armani suit his father picked out for him, though that’s the least of his worries right now. His nausea is also worsening, but he tries to compartmentalize and push that away. He needs to get out of here. He doesn’t know what Spencer wants with him. Maybe he’ll come back and do exactly what Tim feared.
Maybe he has plans for something worse.
Spencer doesn’t strike Tim as a murderer, but Tim’s obviously a horrible judge of character. And this is Gotham after all, the city where doctors and district attorneys became mass murderers at the drop of a hat. A caterer killing a little rich boy would hardly even be worthy of the front page of the Gotham Gazette.
It’s these thoughts that motivate Tim as he attempts to get up off the floor. However, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t even bend a finger. There’s not so much as a twitch. Even his vocal cords have locked up. He can’t cry for help, even if there was more than a semblance of a chance anyone would hear him.
Eventually, Tim stops trying. It’s useless and only serves to make him feel like more of a failure. If Robin got himself in this situation, he wouldn’t let himself be defeated so easily. But Tim’s not Robin. Tim’s a scared boy who just wants this to be over.
It’s hard to keep track of time like this, laying in a dark room while drugged enough that his thoughts are fuzzy on the edges. Eventually, though, Tim hears footsteps approaching from the hall. Tim thinks he hears a squeaking wheel rolling along as well but can’t exactly connect what that means for him.
Soon enough, Tim hears the door creak open as someone flicks on the lightswitch, Tim screws his eyes shut against the sudden brightness. He swallows down another wave of nausea. He’s definitely got a concussion of some sort, based on that reaction.
“Okay Tim, up and at ‘em.” Spencer’s voice says, and before he knows it, he’s being flipped from his stomach and onto his back. “We’re not really in too much of a rush, but I’d rather we get out of here sooner rather than later.”
Spencer reaches his hand just outside the door and it returns with a coil of rope. He then gets to work tying it around his wrists and ankles. The fibers of the rope cut into his skin and Tim has to wonder what the point of this is, considering he literally can’t do anything right now. Unless he’s planning on having Tim even after the drugs are out of his system? But why?
The question must show in his eyes and Spencer must be feeling generous, because he answers.
“I know, I know. This has gotta be confusing for you. Don’t you worry about it. As long as your parents do what they’re supposed to, you’ll be back home in your bed in a week.”
Okay, that… answered some questions for sure. Kidnapping. Ransom. All logical. Still, why here? Why now? Why like this? Why not just nab him off the street or something? Or take him that night that he rode in Spencer’s car? This seemed like a lot of risk and effort for something like this.
“Aw don’t give me that look kid. Don’t tell me you still don’t get it?”
Was he really that easy to read? Tim thought he had a great poker face. He decides to blame it on the mystery drug running through his veins.
“We need some time between when we take you and when we send that ransom note. We can’t have your disappearance being linked back to some party. If you make it home tonight, then, well, I’m off the suspect list.”
But, Tim’s not going to be making it home tonight. Nobody would see him padding around the house in the morning, still clearly exhausted. His parents would clearly notice. His parents-
His parents, who were due on a flight out of Gotham at 8am sharp.
His parents, who had forgotten him at a gala before, and never even realized it.
His parents, who wouldn’t find it weird if Tim didn’t call, since he hardly reached out first anymore due to the sheer amount of times he’d been told they were too busy to talk right now, and could you please send them an email so they could schedule something in advance next time?
The pieces were coming together to form a picture Tim doesn’t want to look at.
“See, now you're understanding. The gala’s over. Your parents went home half an hour ago. No one’s coming for you.”
All those times Tim had confided in Spencer, all those times he thought that the man was trying to be supportive concerning his parents, he was just gaining information. Just making sure that Tim was a viable target, the perfect balance of absentee parents who would still care enough to shell out the big bucks to ensure their son’s safe return. He knows he has bigger things to worry about, but he can’t help but feel a massive pit form in his stomach.
He was vulnerable. He trusted Spencer and he used that information to hurt him. It hurts in a way that he didn’t know betrayal could. He’s never been violated so deeply and personally. It makes his heart ache and seize in his chest and he just wants it to stop.
Once Spencer is satisfied with Tim’s restraints, he exits the room, only to return pushing a dining cart. There’s a tablecloth draped over the top, with one side flipped up to reveal the compartment below. A compartment that’s roughly Tim sized.
Spencer grabs Tim by his armpits and pulls him up and onto the cart. He then picks up his ankles, pushing them to force Tim to bend at his knees. Tim imagines this is what a doll must feel like, as its posed for display. Spencer keeps adjusting him, pulling his knees to his chest and tucking his hands between his legs so that they don’t flop around. At the end of it, Tim is curled up on his side in such a way that he can already feel the strain on his muscles. Tim’s fairly flexible, but not that flexible. He's lucky Spencer didn't pull one of his muscles.
Then the table cloth is dropped over him and he’s being rolled down the hallway.
This is it. The time for Spencer’s actions to be flagged as suspicious is over. There’s nothing weird about a caterer pushing around a dining cart, especially as part of the clean up efforts. Tim has no choice but to lay here and take it. Or at least that's what he thinks.
“Where are you going with that?” A voice asks.
No, not just any voice. Jason Todd-Wayne’s voice. Robin’s voice.
The cart comes to a stop. “Oh, just heading back to the kitchen. Sorry if I almost ran you over, man. I’m just kinda in a rush to get home tonight is all.”
“I get that.” Jason replies. Tim can imagine the way he’s standing, his hands shoved in his pockets and with a slight slouch. “I guess I’m just curious why a dining cart was all the way over here is all. This is, like, miles from the kitchen.”
“Oh, uh, I like to use them for trash. Y’know, that way I can just load them up here and push them around instead of having to carry them myself.” Spencer laughs. It’s a sound Tim thinks he hates, now. “As you can see though, I didn’t find any, so I guess it was a bit of a waste.”
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense... Sorry, didn’t mean to give you the nth degree.”
“No worries. I can see how it might look a little weird.”
He’s going to get away with it. Robin is literally right there and he’s still going to get away with it. If he could just do something he’d be able to make a signal. If there were even the slightest oddity, he’s sure that Jason would pick up on it and save him. The whole situation just makes Tim sick to his stomach.
Wait.
There’s a thought.
All this time, Tim’s been repressing his urge to barf. The idea of lying in a pool of his own vomit without being able to move was unappealing to say the least. But still, it is something that he can do.
Not all of Tim’s muscles are unresponsive. If they were, his heart wouldn’t be beating nor would his lungs be drawing breath. It stands to reason, then, that involuntary muscle contractions, such as those involved in vomiting, would work as well.
This is his last chance. After this, he’s at the whims of Spencer and whoever else he’s working with. He needs to act now. And so Tim allows himself to feel the pain that he’s been trying to repress. He lets the anxiety swallow him whole, and conjures up the most vile images and smells imaginable. He distinctly does not allow himself to think about how mortifying of a way this is to meet his hero for the first time and feels his stomach churn.
And when the bile crawls up his throat and he pukes all over Wayne Manor’s carpet, he’s never been happier.
Jason doesn’t know what he was expecting, following the wait staff down the hall. He didn’t even tail him initially, because sure, it was kind of weird to push a food cart away from where food was being served, but Jason’s not a caterer. Maybe Bruce had ordered that any extra non-perishables be set aside for donation later. Then the man didn't come back though and, well, Jason’s curiosity won out.
And now, with his shoes covered in vomit, he’s glad it did.
Because what the fuck?
Before the caterer can say anything, Jason’s already yanking the black tablecloth off the top of the dining cart. What it reveals almost makes him retch himself.
There, tied up and with vomit dripping down his chin, is a kid. He recognizes him as Timothy Drake, the neighbor kid who Jason sometimes catches glimpses of when Alfred drives him home from play practice.
One observation from earlier that night comes to him, unbidden. He remembers noticing that Tim looked a bit out of it before the New Year’s toast but hadn’t taken that train of thought much further. He assumed that he was just tired, staying up later than normal thanks to the festivities. After all, not all kids were like Robin. They had reasonable bedtimes. By the time the evening was winding down at two am and all the guests filed out, Jason had simply assumed that Jack and Janet Drake had their son with them. Surely parents, even of the rich asshole variety, couldn’t forget that their own kid, right?
Wrong, apparently. Jason’s starting to realize that he was wrong about Tim just being tired earlier, too. The way the kid’s staring at him now, his eyes glassy and pupils dilated, indicate that he’s been drugged with something. Based on the way Tim’s not even attempting to struggle against his restraints, Jason would bet it was some sort of paralyzing agent.
“Fuck.” The word snaps Jason out of his thoughts and back to the man in front of him. His face has lost its color and he has a wide-eyed stare fixed on Jason.
With a growl, Jason’s on him in a second. He might not have the full picture, but he has enough to know that he can’t let this man get away.
His Robin training takes over, though he probably didn’t need it. He can only guess the man wasn’t prepared for some rich kid to spring on him. Within a second, he’s tackled the caterer, bringing them both to the ground. From there, Jason grabs his arm and forces him onto his front. He uses his entire body to pin him to the ground, while still holding the man’s arm in such a way that one wrong move from him would break it.
“Bruce!” He shouts. “Bruce, I need you over here right now!”
“Get off of me!” The man yells, but he doesn’t move from below Jason. Good, at least he understands the position he’s in.
To his credit, Bruce arrives within the next thirty seconds, full on sprinting around the corner. It would be funny if the situation weren’t so dire.
“I’m here Jaylad, what’s-” At the scene in front of him, Bruce cuts himself off.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s a kid here--Tim Drake--and I don’t know what this guy did to him, but I knew I couldn’t let him get away so I-”
“Breathe,” Bruce commands and Jason obliges. He doesn’t know why he’s so worked up right now. He does this almost every night as Robin. Hell, he’s stared down mortal danger more times than he can count. This should be nothing.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s in this situation as Jason Todd-Wayne, though, that makes it so terrifying. This kind of stuff wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in Bristol and certainly not at one of the most public events of the year. Even then, he and Bruce should have noticed something. His dad's drilled situational awareness into his head so much that he could probably recite the speech in his sleep. Somehow, though, he still almost missed this.
It makes him wonder what else he’s missed in his civilian persona.
“Alfred’s on his way with the shotgun. He went for it as soon as we heard you yelling. I’m also going to call the police.”
“Alright… alright.” Jason says. Just at that moment, Alfred himself appears, armed just as Bruce said. As soon as he assesses the situation, he levels the gun on the man Jason’s got pinned.
“Jason, you can let go.” Alfred instructs, his voice as steady as his aim. “And I expect that you will cooperate, sir, unless you would like to learn how a bullet feels.”
Slowly, Jason lets go of his grip and crawls off the man. Thankfully, the caterer doesn’t try anything. He follows Alfred’s instructions to the tee and follows him out to the main hall to wait for the police to arrive. The obedience is most likely motivated by the gun that’s trained on him the whole way, but his compliance is still a relief. As soon as the criminal is out of sight, Jason gets to work on freeing Tim.
He pulls the boy out from his cramped position under the cart, surprised by just how limp he is. The only thing that moves are his eyes, tracking Jason’s every movement.
“Hi Tim. Don’t worry, you’re safe now. An ambulance should be here soon and they’ll get you feeling, just like new, alright?” Bruce has already pulled out the pocket knife he insists on carrying everywhere, and Jason hasn’t been this thankful for his dad’s level of paranoia, even while in civies, in a long time. He saws through the ropes easily, allowing for Tim’s arms and legs to flop free from his bonds.
“Hello Tim. Just like Jason said, we’re here to help. Can you tell us what happened?” There are a few seconds of silence. The only thing they get in response is a trail of drool escaping the side of Tim’s mouth, mingling with the already drying vomit.
“I don’t think he can talk, B.” Which would make sense, considering the only reason he noticed him was because he puked all over him. “Let’s try this. Hey Tim, can you understand us? Blink once for yes, twice for no,”
Blink.
“Awesome! Great job!” Jason can feel himself slipping into Robin-mode and can’t even really bring himself to care. This is a scared kid in front of him and he’s going to do anything to ease that fear, if even just a bit. “Do you know where you are right now?”
Blink.
“Perfect. Do you have anyone we can call? Your parents or something?”
There’s a moment of hesitation and then Blink.
“Can we call your parents? I’m sure they’re real worried about you.”
There’s a longer pause this time, followed by a Blink Blink Blink.
“Three blinks? Buddy I don’t know what that means. Can we call your parents?” Then, turning to Bruce. “B, can you call his-”
“Already on it, Jaylad.”
“See, we’re calling them right now. Like I said, I’m sure they’ve been so worried about you.”
Blink Blink. This time, there are tears beginning to form in his eyes.
This kid… this kid just said “no” to his parents worrying about him. If Jason weren’t so busy trying to be a calming presence, he’d definitely be cussing up a storm right now. Because loving parents, even if they made the massive mistake of leaving their kid somewhere in their drunken stupor, would give a shit if they realized their son was gone. They would be crying and calling around for leads. Being worried is the bare minimum, in Jason's opinion, and what does it say that Tim doesn't expect even that from his parents? There's stunned silence for a few seconds and then, with the world's worst timing, Bruce says:
"Neither Jack nor Janet are answering my calls. I barely get two rings before my call gets rejected."
Oh those motherfuckers.
Jason suspects that if Tim's face weren't paralyzed, it would screw up at the announcement. Since he doesn't have the faculties for that at the moment, though, the tears only come faster. Okay, time to switch strategies. He figures that Tim is overwhelmed enough as it is. He doesn’t need Jason to keep asking probing questions. Besides, he’ll be interrogated ten times over by the police and healthcare professionals as soon as he regains the ability to speak. What Tim needs right now is a distraction.
“Hey, did you know that I have the whole first chapter of Pride and Prejudice memorized?"
A few beats and then Blink Blink.
"Yeah, well I do. At first it was just because I read it so many times, and then I figured, hey, why don't I just try to learn the whole thing? I'm hoping to be able to know the whole book someday, but I'm not that far into chapter two yet. Do you want to hear what I have so far?”
A slow, incredulous Blink. Jason will take it.
“Great! I never get to show this off so this should be fun. 'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…'”
Jason is about halfway through the chapter by the time the paramedics arrive. They transfer Tim to a gurney, already drawing blood and taking vitals, as they move towards the back of the ambulance. The EMTs say that neither Bruce nor Jason are allowed to ride in the back with Tim, on account of the fact they aren’t family.
Of course, Bruce’s response is that he’ll meet them at the hospital, ignoring the stammering of the paramedic that he wouldn’t be able to see Tim there either. Jason suspects that the hospital staff will bend that little rule for the likes of Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s Sweetheart.
“So what are we going to do about this whole thing?” Jason asks, slipping into the passenger seat of one of Bruce’s more nondescript town cars. He doesn’t want to attract attention for this particular hospital visit.
“The police will handle the investigation. I’m sure that given the testimonies of both you and Tim, he’ll be behind bars as quick as the justice system allows.”
“That’s not everything I’m talking about and you know it. You still haven’t been able to reach Mr. or Mrs. Drake, right?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I haven’t even been able to leave a voice mail. I’ve instructed Alfred to keep trying and I sent them both a message to their business emails but…”
“But you don’t know how long that’ll take.” Jason turns toward his father, expectantly. “So?”
“So,” Bruce turns the key in the ignition. “I think Batman and Robin have some investigating to do.”