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Tim had been hesitant about travelling on Bruce's behalf. It had happened before, of course — Tim was not unaccustomed to stepping in at Wayne Enterprises when the situation called for it. Many of their business partners were aware of his status, and it wasn't the cause of too many issues in the long run. They had long ago learnt not to underestimate Tim due to his age and apparent inexperience.
Still, he doubted he was making a good impression currently, slouching down in his seat and eyes continually drifting towards the window of the meeting room, staring out over Metropolis, fifty floors up.
The man sitting next to him at the table brought a fist to his mouth and coughed a few times, and Tim’s eyes flickered towards him momentarily. Not into his elbow, not into a tissue, his hand. Tim flexed his own hands under the table in response, trying hard not to grimace at the sensation.
He couldn't focus. His mind drifted in no set direction, unable to stay on course for more than a few seconds at a time. Fingers drumming on the table, leg bouncing, chewing at his bottom lip, Tim stared out at the skyscrapers set to a backdrop of white clouds. Metropolis wasn't so far from Gotham, but it always seemed brighter, always seemed to have better weather. Maybe it was the buildings, reflecting light in the glass panelling, open to the sky to let light touch the streets below. Gotham didn't have that, most roads hidden in the shadows cast from stone monoliths.
The clicker in Fox's hand made a sound, and Tim started, head whipping to the noise, before he closed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it. Nothing. Just another slide as Fox continued to explain their mission statement to the potential partners. Tim was a professional, dammit! Distractions were not allowed.
Superman hadn't flown past today. Did anyone in the city look up when he did now? Did businessmen stop their conferences to stand at the windows and watch as the man of tomorrow went by? Or was it such a commonplace they hardly cared anymore?
A woman sneezed, and Tim jumped, recovering by uttering a quick ‘bless you’ alongside everyone else in the room. She sniffed loudly, waving a hand in apology, and Tim shifted himself ever-so-slightly away from her, disguising it by reaching for the complimentary glass of water sitting in front of him, taking a sip. He set it down a little harder than intended, the glass clacking against the lacquer of the table. Several faces in the room turned to the sound, attention suddenly on him, and he winced.
”Don't let me interrupt you.” Tim plastered a smile on his face, though it felt more like a grimace. He picked up a pen, tapping it on his thigh as he leant back in his chair, nodding to Fox.
Fox's gaze lingered on Tim for a moment longer than necessary before he cleared his throat— Tim hid his flinch at the noise as best he could— drawing attention back to himself to continue speaking.
Continuing to drum the pen against his leg, Tim’s eyes slid out of focus. Fox became a blurry silhouette at the other side of the room, words blending into each other.
On a regular day, Tim would understand everything Fox was saying. On a good day, Fox would be willing to sit back, allowing Tim to take the reins and test his ability to run the room.
Today, he could barely process anything that was being said. He was sure if any questions were to be directed at him, he'd be unable to answer them, tongue growing heavier in his mouth at the mere thought of having to use business jargon. He wiped his free hand on his thigh.
His hands were clammy. Was that from the hand sanitiser? He clenched and unclenched his fist a few times, blunt fingernails digging into his palm, the drumming of the pen in his other hand becoming off-beat.
The clicker in Fox's hand made a noise again as he clicked to the next slide, and Tim once again found himself shaking his head to clear it. What was going on? Why couldn't he focus?
The aircon was set too low, the room too cold to be comfortable. Despite that, Tim was sweating, sure he was leaving residue over the pen in his hand. Gross.
“How about we take a brief break?” Fox’s voice cut through his thoughts. Tim blinked, all at once alert. Fox gave him a warm smile, straightening out his jacket. “We've been at this for a while. Everyone, please. Grab a coffee. Refresh yourselves. Mr. Drake, if you would stay?”
The polite hush that had been present in the room since the meeting began lifted all at once as everyone got to their feet, buttoning jackets and straightening ties, collecting bags and notes. Tim didn't move, pen still tapping against his thigh as he stared about the room, watching people leave. The man next to Tim that had coughed into his hand moved too close, and Tim leant away as he passed.
When the door clicked shut behind the final member, Fox sighed, dropping into his chair at the opposite end of the table to Tim. It was… better, now that the room was nearly empty. Tim settled back into his chair, mirroring Fox.
“I'm used to Mr. Wayne zoning out in our meetings,” Fox said, eyebrows raised.
Tim's nose wrinkled. “You probably have a clue what he's really thinking about,” he replied, finally letting the pen still. He started to unscrew the end, play with the internal pieces, extracting the spring.
“Probably,” Fox shrugged, leaning back into his chair. He crossed one leg over the other, folding his hands in his lap. “But I know what you look like when you're deep in thought, and this isn't it.”
The spring escaped Tim's hand, spinning on the table for a moment before coming to a stop. He grabbed it again, putting the pen back together.
“Now, I know I don't pry,” Fox said.“What's your business stays yours, and I'm safer not knowing... but is there something important I should know? You didn't come along for... other reasons, did you?”
Tim frowned, starting to disassemble the pen again. “No, nothing like that...” He rolled the pen cap between his fingers. “I...did Mr. Buttigeig seem to be coughing a lot?”
Fox blinked, head tipping to the side a little. “Can't say any more than usual.”
Tim nodded absently. “Right...” He fumbled the spring again, dropping it under the table. Sighing, he set the barrel of the pen down. “But they weren't throat-clearing coughs — you know, the ones where you cough two or three times in a quiet space? These were... harsher.”
“It's that time of year,” Fox said. “The winds tend to bring a lot of hay fever.”
“Hay fever— of course. Right. Nothing to do with the flu that’s been going around, or the…” he trailed off, grimacing.
Fox leant forward a little in his seat, searching Tim's face for something. “Mr. Drake—“ he began, before cutting himself off. “Timothy,” he restarted, voice dropping to something less professional. Less a CEO speaking to a fellow director, more a man simply speaking to someone younger than him. Tim snapped into focus, staring back.
Fox's posture had shifted the smallest fraction, body language open and kind. He'd always been honourable, always upheld that truth and transparency were important to work integrity. It was something he pushed both in and outside of workplace settings, something he displayed time and time again. It was something he always showed to Tim.
Something he didn't always return in kind.
Tim made himself take a deep breath, in for six, hold for four, out for eight. “Sorry,” he said, “I’ve felt… off my game, today.”
“I feel that’s what most would call that an understatement.” Fox’s tone was teasing, a knowing glint in his eye. “I am capable of running this on my own, you know. You can leave early, if need be.”
Tim groaned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, head in his hands. “I want to be here,” he said, “I like doing this— I do. But…”
“... But?” Fox prompted.
“But travelling.” Tim sank a little further into his hands.
“Metropolis is a stone’s throw from Gotham.”
“And it’s getting harder to do even that!”
Fox’s chair squeaked as he readjusted, leaning in. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
In for six, hold for four, out for eight. “Did Tam ever tell you about…” Tim trailed off.
Fox gave a wry smile. “My children don’t share much with me,” he said. “Especially about any other jobs they — or their friends — may have.”
Tim nodded, lifting his face a little until his hands rested over his jaw. “That period when I was in and out of hospital,” he said, “not… all of it was a ruse. I was recovering. I’m– I’m still recovering. A lot.”
A hum from Fox to continue.
“I’m immunocompromised,” Tim said, breathing out a shaky laugh. “I don’t know, maybe I always have been, since the Clench, but recently I feel it's gotten worse, so…”
“So now you’re hypervigilant.”
“The last three trips I went on, I got sick. I’d only just recover from one before having to go again, without being able to build up my strength again, and it’s this… this cycle.”
He turned his face down again, burying down into his hands to muffle another laugh, tipping towards delirium.
“You're spiralling.”
“You think?” Tim responded, before wincing at how biting the words came out. In for six, hold for four, out for eight.
“Tim,” Fox said, “Please don’t feel as if you have to stay. I’m sure your father would understand if you returned home early. I’ve got this more than—”
“No,” Tim blurted out, head shooting up. “... No. I can manage.”
Fox pressed his lips together into a kind smile, crinkling around his eyes in sympathy. “At the very least take the rest of the day,” he suggested. “Come back tomorrow with a fresh start.”
Tim furrowed his brow. “A-are you sure…?”
“Timothy,” Fox said, sitting back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “Sitting in a room you don’t feel safe in— unable to pay attention to anything actually happening— does not sound like the best way to spend your day. Go back to the hotel. Take some time to recentre yourself.”
The door to the suite clicked as Tim swiped the keycard over the sensor, and he pressed the handle down with his elbow, opening the door with his full body weight, not even bothering to turn on the lights. He unhooked his mask as he moved further into the room, dropping it into the bin as he went past.
Fox was right. Now that he was in the confines of his own space, the exhaustion had set in, leaving Tim wanting to do nothing but flop down boneless onto the bed. Once upon a time, he would’ve done so with no hesitation, but now there was a routine to it.
He didn’t go through the whole song and dance at home, only when he was in an unfamiliar place, which ironically was the time he never had energy for it. But the only way out was through.
He pulled the tiny bottle of hand sanitiser out of his bag, squeezing some into his hand as he kicked off his shoes. Phone screen wiped down and put on charge. Desk wiped clean before he set his laptop down, also on charge. A quick shower, followed by a full change of clothes, the dirtied ones set in a secondary bag in his luggage.
Once all that was done, then Tim dropped face down onto the bed with a long, drawn-out groan, muffled into the pillow. In for six, hold for four, out for eight. He remained like that for a minute, before rolling over to stare at the alarm clock set beside the bed.
And the full pill dosage box, containing his meds from this morning, sitting innocently beside it.
His untaken meds: various vitamins, iron supplements, antihistamines — not to mention his ADHD medication. Of course his brain was going haywire.
Tim turned his face back into the pillow to scream.