Chapter Text
Jack Drake's Amex black card gets declined for the first time on an ordinary Thursday evening.
Tim doesn't even notice.
They're waist deep in tracking down a new form of the Scarecrow's fear toxin, and there have been alarming hints that he might have condensed it into pill form, to slip in with over-the-counter pharmaceuticals. The night's full of leads to follow, witnesses to interview, and an entire dock full of low-level goons that aren't too pleased when Batman and Robin swoop in to interrupt their cargo unload.
By the time Tim makes his way back to his parents' empty manor sometime after 3 am, with fresh bruises blooming across his ribs, the last thing on his mind's logging into his father's email account to look for notifications.
Instead, Tim lies down on his bed, still streaked with dust from having been kicked into a half-open crate that's been collecting cobwebs, and he closes his eyes, and he passes right out until his phone beeps at him, insistently, two hours later, to get ready for school.
He doesn't notice on Friday, either, or on Saturday, or on Sunday, caught up in staking out an endless string of no-longer-in-use pharmacies that stand empty but still house enough abandoned equipment to give Scarecrow's men what they need to get this operation up and running.
Tim's got plenty of problems already.
It just never occurs to him that his father's credit card is one of them.
Bruce eyes him with an unreadable expression as Tim hunches in over the Batcomputer.
Tim can feel the weight of his stare — glances sideways, briefly, to take in the expression. He has practice, after all, with the way adults look at him, like they don't approve of what he's doing, or they don't appreciate his tone, or they just don't know what to make of him.
Bruce is Bruce, so he's more difficult to read than Tim's parents ever were. Jack and Janet have never been hard to interpret; their voices edge toward impatience in Tim's presence, and their lips curl when he uses a tone that's anything other than blandly respectful. The signs have never been particularly subtle.
But Bruce, Tim thinks, is something else entirely.
Bruce is all neutral stares and unreadable inflections. Even now, he's peering down at Tim with a look that Tim doesn't know what to make of.
"Something the matter?" says Tim, aiming for casual. He's in the middle of hacking his way into the GCPD's files on a round of pharmacy break-ins from six months ago, which may or may not be related, but it never hurts to be thorough. His fingers pause on the keyboard, as he speaks.
"It's 5 am," says Bruce.
Tim blinks at the screen; his eyes track to the corner, where the time blinks back at him. "Oh."
Bruce doesn't say anything, and so Tim resumes his efforts, focus narrowing to accounts of breaking and enterings past.
Bruce clears his throat. "It's a school night."
Tim tears his eyes from the screen, with difficulty.
"School morning," he quips, with a little half-smile, and then smothers it down again when Bruce doesn't offer one in return.
Tim's on thin ice here — he knows that. He has been for the past year.
He's forced his way into this place, into their lives, and Bruce tolerates him because he has skills to bring to the table. But he's a placeholder, at the end of the day; he's keeping the spot meant for Bruce's son, and Bruce never especially wanted him to fill it.
"Go to bed, Tim," says Bruce, sounding tired himself.
Tim could point out that there's not much point, when it's already 5.
He has a room at Wayne manor, but it's for emergencies only. By the time he makes it back to his parents' house, he'll have maybe half an hour before he has to get up again, which won't do anything but guarantee he starts the day groggy and with a headache.
Tim could make the argument, of course. He has a solid case.
He does, sometimes, when Bruce is too deep in his own head to make rational decisions. Tim's said things in this cave that he would never dare say to his parents, because sometimes Bruce needs a voice of reason, even if it means he likes Tim a little less. Sometimes Bruce needs to be convinced to take care of himself, even if it means that the thin ice Tim's standing on cracks a little further.
But this — this isn't that. There's nothing to gain by pushing here, no benefit to Bruce if he presses for another half hour.
And he's learned, over the years, that adults generally do not want to hear why their plans aren't good ones. Better to save his interjections for when he really needs them.
"Yes, sir," says Tim, and he saves the GCPD files to review when he gets back to his parents' house.
Tim doesn't notice the missing groceries until Wednesday of next week.
That's the morning when, half-awake and squinting against the unfairly cheery sun just beginning to peek in through the curtains, he sticks his hand into the box of granola bars to take one to school for lunch.
He finds only cardboard.
Tim pats around the bottom of the empty box, then fishes it out to peer inside it blearily.
Still nothing.
He blinks down at the box. It says something about how little sleep he's been getting, Tim thinks fuzzily, that it takes a moment to parse.
When he looks up again, at the pantry cupboard this time, he finds that it's decidedly depleted.
There are a few cans of ravioli, a bag of coffee beans, an open box of cereal, and the veggie chips his mother bought on a whim the last time she was home five months ago and then promptly forgot about, by now almost certainly cardboard-stale.
Tim leaves the pantry and ventures to the fridge: a packet of hotdogs, a half a box of frozen waffles, a bottle of mustard, and a jug of cold brew, mostly empty.
So: the groceries didn't get delivered.
The world, Tim decides, as he places the grocery order for a second time and packs himself a couple of handfuls of dry cereal in a ziplock bag for lunch, should not be allowed to throw him curveballs before 10 am on a weekday.
He pours himself the last of the cold brew for breakfast, hits order on his phone, and shifts focus. He's got a math quiz coming up first period and tonight they'll be dropping in on the most promising defunct pharmacy yet. By the time Tim's out the door to catch the bus, he's got the blueprints for the empty building up on his phone and has plotted three separate routes to enter the building, depending on security camera placement.
The groceries are over and done with: a tiny blip of a problem already scrubbed from his radar.
"I pulled the security footage," says Tim, slotting his USB drive into the Batcomputer.
Bruce has him fixed with a long, considering sort of a look.
"There was no security footage."
"There wasn't," says Tim. "But I installed a new camera.
The click of a mouse and the screen fills with two weeks worth of surveillance. "Even if it didn't catch them in the act, if they're using it as a base of operations we should see them in and out as they ramp up for the distribution, right?"
Another click; Tim's code analyzes video stills, combing through the new data.
Statistical probability, the screen tells them: 7%.
Tim deflates, a little.
He'd spent the last of his cash on that camera: a holdover from Christmas four years back when he got a card with a few bills inside, from an absent aunt he's never met and who hasn't remembered him on the holidays before or since. He'd been ecstatic to remember that he still had some of it left — ecstatic for the new equipment when it came, hoping it would yield a lead, at least.
But there's no lead, and when he looks over, Bruce is staring at him with one of his patented flat, unreadable looks, and Tim deflates further.
He transfers the files to the folder on the Batcomputer anyway, just in case, but he doesn't think it will help them, really. Not anymore.
"I'll change the location tomorrow," says Tim. There's another spot on Hamstead and 15th that looks likely, and the footage from the traffic cameras doesn't catch a good view of the rear doors.
He wishes Bruce would stop looking at him like that, like there's something he wants to mention, some comment he can't find the words for.
Tim's certain he knows exactly what Bruce wants to say already.
The groceries, Tim discovers, are not a tiny blip of a problem.
The new order doesn't arrive either, though he waits three days, patiently, to see if maybe there's a backlog and the store is especially busy.
On the fourth day, when he's down to two frozen waffles, half the hotdogs, his mother's ancient veggie chips, and the coffee beans, Tim checks the grocery store's website to see what the holdup is.
The holdup, he finds, is that his father's card has been declined.
Tim drums his fingers on the desk, not quite sure what to do with that.
He logs into his father's email address, with the password he isn't meant to have — takes note of the automated replies from the grocery store, telling him twice that they're unable to complete his order.
Then he skims through the other emails, in descending date order, scanning for any clues as to what might have caused this. He finds it wedged in among an ad for some new crypto currency and what looks like a cutting-edge weight loss scam.
It's from American Express, and it informs Tim's father in crisp, polite language that they have canceled his card due to a security incident. They've mailed a new one to his address on file.
The address on file, Tim realizes, with a slow, sinking sort of dread, will be the dig site.
The address on file is always updated, when Tim's parents travel.
The new card has gone to Morocco.
Tim marks the emails as unread again, just in case his father signs in (he never does) and scrolls back up to the top, from force of habit. A new mail has come in, while he's been reading, this one from Mrs. Mac.
Due to the payment issues she mentioned in her previous email, she says, she will suspend services until an alternate arrangement can be reached.
Tim drums his fingers on the desk some more, and then catches himself doing it. In his head, his mother's voice says, "Stop that incessant noise, Timothy."
He presses his fingers against the wood instead, until the pads of them go white. He takes several long, slow breaths the way Bruce taught him, a four count in and a five count out. He keeps doing it until the ringing in his ears fades, slightly.
Then he carefully clicks out of the email, marks it too as unread, and signs out of his father's account.
It's fine. This is fine.
It's a puzzle like any other: a problem with a solution to be found. Tim will just have to find it.
The chemical stink of the harbor isn't on his skin any longer; the faint astringent burning's washed away with the shower and a liberal three rounds of scrubbing.
His hair's still dripping, soaking into the collar of his t-shirt; while he was cleaning up in the Batcave's emergency shower, someone's swooped in to clear away the Robin suit for maintenance. Alfred, almost certainly.
A genteel throat clearing catches his attention, and Tim half-turns, not at all surprised to find that Alfred has materialized nearby, holding a fluffy towel folded over one arm.
"It is a cold night, Master Timothy," says Alfred, with a pointed quirk of one eyebrow, and Tim reaches out to take the offered towel.
"Oh," he says. "Right." He rubs the towel through his hair, roughly. "Thanks, Alfred."
Alfred watches for a moment until he's satisfied and then steps away again.
When Tim's vision is less obscured by a towel, a stylish cream hoodie with piping in Robin red has appeared draped neatly over Alfred's arm.
Tim stares at it for a moment, caught oddly off-kilter. It's too small by half for Bruce, or even for Dick. Tim's brain breaks a little if he even attempts to contemplate Alfred wearing it himself.
"I noticed you did not arrive with a jacket," says Alfred. "As you have been putting in quite a lot of late nights, I took the liberty of arranging you a handful of spares, if they should chance to be needed after patrol."
Tim reaches out to take it, curiously touched.
He's been buying his own clothing online since he turned eight; the thought that someone has gone out of their way to find something for him, has thought of him long enough to anticipate him needing it, makes something stick in his throat.
There's a tightness in Tim's chest: something warm, but also wary. The gesture is all careful consideration, but there's a part of Tim that shies away from it, instinctively. A part of him that wonders if this is some subtle criticism of his logistics planning. Surely, he could have brought a handful of spares from his own room to have on hand, just in case.
But Alfred is watching him, and so he swallows, carefully — reaches out to touch the drawstring.
"It's very nice," he says, and it is very nice.
It's exactly his style.
Alfred must have been paying attention to that, too, and for some reason, the thought only makes the tightness in his chest twist sharper.
"I'll wash it before I bring it back," says Tim.
And perhaps that's the wrong thing to say, because there's a flicker of displeasure in Alfred's expression as Tim lifts the hoodie from his arms. Perhaps he wasn't meant to accept the offer, after all.
But it's too late, now; it's there in his hands, and if he tries to put it back, it will only be more awkward, and Tim can hear the echoes of his mother's voice: "Honestly, Timothy, have you no social graces at all?"
"Thank you," Tim blurts, because he realizes he's forgotten to say it. He pulls the hoodie on, hasty, and that at least gets Alfred to smile, the barest thawing at the corner of his lips.
It feels better, having a plan.
He has it all laid out in a spreadsheet on his laptop: the calories per hotdog, and the calories per waffle, and even, reluctantly, the calories in the mummified veggie chips.
It isn't math Tim particularly likes, but people can go a long time without food. He's gone a few days at a stretch himself, here and there, when logistics got overlooked or payments were delayed. It happens, sometimes.
He just needs to ration himself, until he can figure out another solution.
There's nothing Tim can think of, off the top of his head, that could readily supplement what he has — his parents would skin him alive if he dared to be spotted at a food bank, the damage to their reputation unthinkable — but he's sure that it will come to him, if he gives it a couple of days.
If worse comes to absolute worst, he can call his father and let him know that there's a problem. Surely if Tim waits long enough, the new card will arrive in Morocco, and Tim's father will realize what's happened on his own. But if he doesn't — well. If he doesn't, there's a fallback option.
Tim only hopes he doesn't have to take it.
Dick's home for the weekend.
Tim can always tell; there's a certain shift in the mood, as soon as he walks in through the door.
The house feels lighter somehow, like a ray of sunlight has pierced through the clouds to offer up its glow on an otherwise dreary day. Sometimes when Dick's here, Bruce even smiles.
Tim has a lot of thoughts about Dick's occasional weekend visits, and he categorically refuses to examine half of them.
They tangle up in his chest and get caught there, like Ivy's creeping vines, but mostly — mostly, they're good days.
And sure enough, Tim's barely stepped into the hallway before Dick breezes in from the kitchen to sling an easy arm around his shoulders.
"Timmy!" he crows, and he jostles Tim a little, amiably.
Tim can feel the smile spreading across his face. He's not immune to that ray of sunshine, either, and it seems to light him up inside.
It had been jarring, at first, to have someone in his life so easy with tactile affection. Tim thinks he can count on two hands the number of times he's been hugged. Of the nine, which he absolutely does not hoard in his memory like some sort of strange, socially awkward dragon, seven of them have been from Dick, all in the past year. One was from Dick when Tim was much, much smaller.
The final hug, stilted and perfunctory, had been from his parents, during a professional photoshoot for the About Us page of the Drake Industries website.
The photographer had draped their arms around Tim, putting them into position, and Tim, spine straight and shoulders stiff, had stood perfectly, painstakingly still, soaking it surreptitiously in until it was time for the next pose. Then his parents had stepped away again, leaving the place where their arms had been altogether too cold.
So it's been nice, having Dick around.
More than nice, to feel not just tolerated but welcomed.
Tim's under no illusions; he's here at the manor to do a job. But sometimes, in these moments, he can tell himself that Dick wouldn't mind if he came by every now and again, just to visit.
"Did you see?" says Dick, and he lets go of Tim's shoulders to take him by the arm, tugging him toward the kitchen instead of the Batcave. "Alfred made cookies."
"Think he's trying to lure you in," says Tim, with a huff of a laugh. "Like one of those traps they bait for raccoons."
"Raccoons are too smart for that, baby bird," says Dick, blithely, and swipes up one of the bait-cookies anyway, biting into it with an appreciative little hum.
Tim finds somewhere else to look — fixes his gaze on a spot on the far wall, trying hard to ignore the way the kitchen smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and sugar. His stomach twists a little, hopeful, and he tells it firmly that these aren't for him. They're Dick's welcome-home cookies.
It's hard, though.
The hotdogs are almost out, even though he's been rationing himself.
"What," says Dick, brightly. "Don't you like snickerdoodles?" Then he reaches down, casual, and presses one into Tim's hand, large and warm and soft beneath his fingers, dusted with cinnamon-sugar. "Alfie's'll change your mind, promise. You've got to try one."
Tim 's fingers close down on the cookie.
The words are barely out of Dick's mouth before he's moving to accept the invitation, biting down into a confection that's sweet and spiced and still a little warm.
For a second, his eyes flutter closed. He chews, once, and the cookie comes apart on his tongue.
Dick laughs, triumphant. "See? Alfie wins again, flawless victory."
Tim knows better than to talk with his mouth full; knuckles rapped with cutlery and smattered bruising on the backs of his hands have long since rid him of anything but exemplary table manners.
So he chews, and he swallows, and he says, politely: "Thank you. They're very good."
"So you've got to help me eat them," says Dick, and he piles two more into Tim's hands.
That single ray of sunlight, somehow, is very warm indeed.
Tim takes a long, slow, deep breath.
Then he takes another. Then he takes a third.
He drums his fingers on the desk, and he forces himself to stop, and he stares down at his phone.
This is ridiculous, he tells himself, in a voice that sounds very like his mother's. He's being ridiculous.
His father will be irritated to hear from him, surely, but Tim has made arrangements to make this as convenient as possible. He's looked up the timezone conversion and planned the call for 9:30 am sharp in Morocco, just after his parents will have finished breakfast and be preparing to head out to start on their dig.
They won't be tired from work; they will have just settled themselves with a nice meal and a cup of coffee.
It's 3:30 am in Gotham, but staying up a couple of hours after patrol tonight is a small price to pay, to get the timing right.
Tim takes another breath, to steady himself, and then he hits the call button. It rings, and rings, and rings, and Tim sits there listening to it, heart in his throat.
Finally, the call goes through.
"Dad?" says Tim.
"You've reached Jack Drake," says Tim's father. "I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and your number, I'll get back to you."
Tim swallows down the disappointment. He says, "Hi, Dad. Um," and then he kicks himself for saying um, because he knows very well how much hemming and hawing annoys his father. Once, when Tim was seven, his teacher had marked down his history presentation to a B because of the lack of polish, noting specifically his filler words.
His father had been traveling in Peru at the time, but on his next trip home he'd spotted the graded report on Tim's desk. He'd been all too willing to share his opinion on how unprofessional it is to ruin what you mean to say by filling it up with half-hearted, poorly-planned nonsense. Then he'd gone on to add exactly what he thought of Tim hiding this from him.
Tim hadn't hid it, of course; he just hadn't thought that the grade had been worth mentioning. He father so rarely asks about the mundanities of Tim's day-to-day life, after all.
But this was worth mentioning, apparently, and Tim's father had been sure he knew it.
He'd worked from home for a day, ensconced in the dining room, with Tim standing three feet to the left, shoulders back and chin up, hands clasped properly behind his back. He'd recited that speech literal hundreds of times, until his lips were so dry they cracked. Every time he said "um," or faltered in his pacing or shifted his weight to try to adjust his aching feet, his father had reached out to rain a stinging slap down on Tim's arm with the metal straight edge he was using to map routes for his upcoming dig site.
Ten hours later, when Jack Drake clocked out of work, Tim was finally allowed to get himself a glass of water and sit down.
"Um" still burns on his tongue like acid — still draws him up short in a cold sweat.
But he's already started, and the only thing worse than calling at all and pestering his parents over something so trivial would be daring to call for no reason, and so he rushes onward.
"How are you and Mom doing?" he says. "I just wanted you to know, your Amex card hasn't been working, so none of the payments have been going through. Could you call, please, and see what's going on?" He can't say they canceled the card, of course; then his father will want to know how he knows. "Anyway, I know you're busy, but that's the card we have on the utilities. And for Mrs. Mac. And the groceries? So whenever you get a chance, if it isn't any trouble —"
The phone beeps at Tim, signifying he's out of time, and Tim closes his eyes.
He'd wanted to cushion the blow a little, to try and make it seem less like he was being so demanding — tell them he hoped their dig was going well, at least.
Now it will end on a sour note, an accusatory note, and Jack Drake does so hate being put on the spot.
But still.
Tim's father knows now, so however displeased he'll be the next time he stops by Gotham between business engagements, at least the credit card situation will be addressed.
All Tim has to do is wait.