Chapter Text
There's a million things on Duke's mind. The Robins, a school essay, carving out some time to go see his mom at the clinic with the other Joker victims, and oh! How could he forget? His first gala event, the shiny invitation still on his desk like a harbinger of bad luck.
He's refusing to touch it. Because fuck that. Duke's a plain old dude — what the hell do you mean he has to go do rich people society stuff?
"Hey," Duke greets. He passes Tim, and he feels a tad like it's a the changing of the guard as Tim turns in and Duke heads out. And then realizes — "Wait, got a second?"
Tim only glances vaguely at his phone before turning his full attention to Duke and nodding. "Sure, what's up?"
"Gala," is all he says and Tim's making a face that's half a cringe and all sympathy.
"Sorry, yeah. It's your first one, right? Sucks, but you're Bruce's latest token adoption —," Duke opens his mouth to protest and Tim's already got his hands up in surrender, "I know. But there's no arguing nuance with public opinion on the finer details of foster, guardianship or adoption."
"Ugh," Duke groans, really pulling it from somewhere deep and aggrieved. At the very least, it gets a amused chuckle from Tim. "Fucking, rich people. I don't know anything about galas or dressing for them. All I know is I got a formal invite on my desk and there's a strict dress code. I asked Bruce, and he said I can —."
"Let me guess," Tim interrupts with a rueful grin. It's then that Duke notices he looks good, well-fed and even the perpetual circles under his eyes aren't as bruised. Shit, is Tim… tan? Duke doesn't get long to ruminate on it, because Tim's continuing on and counting off the options one by one on his fingers. "Bruce said you can have Alfred dress you, and risk looking like you stepped out of a Regency era novel. You can ask Dick, and risk looking like you got dressed by clowns in the dark, or me."
"You," Duke confirms. "He said something about 'avant garde'."
"It isn't —," Tim starts. Stopping, he sighs and shakes his head but he's still smiling so it just gives an air of good natured exasperation. "I have a fashion designer, he's great. He did that show, the runway competition? I never watched it. Anyway, like half my wardrobe is his work and he's always complaining he wishes more people were willing to be adventurous with their formal wear. I can bring you with me to my appointment. Just let me know so I can tell him we need a third tux."
Honestly, the offer itself is a huge weight off his chest. At least one thing is solved, and it makes an immediate difference to Duke's stress. "Dude, please. I can't do a plain tux. Everyone will assume I'm the staff." Here, he makes a face.
"No way, high society can be racist but it's not… that bad…." Tim trails off under the weight of Duke's disbelieving look. Looking appropriately chastised, Tim concedes, "Ok, fine, yeah, it is exactly that racist. Don't focus on that, are you free tomorrow? I'll pick you up after you're done with classes and we can head right over."
There's a study group, and Izzy promised to pay him back for lunch, but Duke nods. Pulling out his phone, he shoots off a few texts. "Awesome, cool. Anything I need to know? I've never been fitted for a suit."
"I'll let Alfred know he doesn't need to pick you up. Nothing special." Duke looks up to see Tim on his own phone, typing at lightning speed with one thumb. "Oh, bring the shoes you plan to wear."
"Uh." Duke wracks his brain. Does he have dress shoes? Technically, Gotham Academy dress code states dress shoes, but no one's ever had an issue with his sneakers. And, well, give a kid the type of allowance Bruce considers 'small', and Duke isn't surprised he's ended up with a considerable sneaker collection.
The less said about the number of jackets he's accumulated, the better.
Tim looks at him over his phone. It gives the same unimpressed objection that Alfred's a master of. At least, from Tim, it isn't nearly as lethal. "We'll get you dress shoes while we're at it."
"See, this is why Red Robin is my favorite."
Snorting, Tim shoves his phone into the pocket of his lounge pants. "Suck up," he grins. "I'll accept it though. I'll text when I'm on my way to the academy. Good luck on patrol, keep safe out there."
"Always," Duke shoots off a two finger salute.
It's half way through getting into his suit that he pauses, something clicking into place.
"Wait, three tuxes?"
➽───────────────❥
"So," Steph starts. She's fighting to get her gloves off. It's been a warm night in Gotham so they're a bit sticky with sweat and she's really too tired for this battle. "Gala next week, Friday?"
"Yeah," Tim vaguely agrees — or confirms? Steph isn't paying too much attention to him, slowly making inroads on releasing her fingers. Somewhere near the showers, Cass is doing something about the sewer water in her boots.
When Steph wins her little war against the glove, she finally looks up. Tim, for all his complaining about being their comms director, looks good. Well, better than her or Cass, that's for sure. Most likely due to the fact that he's been sitting on his ass in the nice cool Cave, running Team Batgirl radio for them while Barbara's out with a nasty Summer cold. But Steph looks, really looks and she's a bit shocked. He looks relaxed, and well-rested. Skin clear, hair shiny.
What the fuck.
Steph squints.
Did… did her friend get a glow up?
Look, she knows she's been busy. University and classes and part time work and trying to date Cass and be Spoiler with shared custody of Batgirl while floating to help with Birds of Prey…. well, it's a lot, even for someone as awesome as Steph. And somewhere in that mix, she's realized she's let down her best friend. Lost touch a bit.
Because as much as some people (cough-Bruce-coughcough) count seeing each other in masks as quality time, Steph does not. And now, she's standing in the cave, the sound of Cass's wet socks slapping onto the stones echoing around her, sweat stinging her eyes and a disgustingly sweaty glove clenched in her hand when she realizes.
Steph can't remember the last time she saw her best friend outside of patrol. Or a suit. Or a news report or a tabloid.
"So, I'll meet you at the penthouse?" she asks, settling her mind on a new mission. Forget the gloves. "The usual time? This thing starts at eight, right?"
Tim hums, half-distracted while he's transcribing his own notes into the log for tonight's Terrible No Good Very Awful and Bad Patrol that involved the sewer for reasons Steph assumes are punishable by the Hague.
The sewer. In Gotham. In the summer.
Ugh.
"Why?" Tim's voice brings her away from the edge of a full meltdown, the odor still clinging to her hair. "Unless you and Cass want to get ready there?"
Tilting her head, Steph considers him. Finally, he spares her a shred of attention and looks up from the screen to catch the full weight of her grin and hands on hips pose. "Well, I'm looking forward to being your plus-one, Mr. Drake."
"My plus-one?" Confusion is cute on Tim. Always had been, Steph's willing to admit. They're exes now, but she's never going to deny that they had something, or what drew her to Tim Drake in the first place. "I thought you were going as Cass's?"
"Don't you need one?" She pushes her hair back off her face. Conceding defeat, she holds her hands out to Tim. It takes only wiggling her fingers for him to get with the program and start pulling at her remaining glove. Maybe, between the two of them as opposing forces, this one will be less of a struggle session. "I mean, you hate going stag to these things."
The Ex feels like a ghost between them.
As much as Steph loved-loves-will-always-love Tim, there's a hurt even she couldn't approach. Their's was a puppy love. What Tim and Bernard had?
Stuff of novels. Intrigue, finding each other again, overcoming insane adversity. And then —.
Well, the less said, the better.
"I won't be stag," Tim says, and the glove finally comes off. He tosses at her in a single fluid movement, quick and perfectly aimed so that it splats against her face.
Spluttering — both from his response and the glove that stinks now way too close to her nose — Steph flails for a moment. By the time she's got herself back in order, Tim's standing. And, because he ran comms, Tim's already in his lounge wear. He starts for the stairs.
"Wait!" Chasing after him, Steph tries to push her hair from her face. "Come back here, what do you mean you won't be stag?"
Shrugging a single shoulder and slanting a sly look at her, Tim cryptically smiles but doesn't answer.
"You asshole!" she shouts, wrestling with her gear in earnest. She'll chase him naked into the Manor if she has to. It's nothing he hasn't seen before. "You can't — slow down, you can't say that and then just walk away from me!"
At the top of the stairs now, Tim looks back at her. He pauses and makes a thoughtful noise. "You better help Cass. I think she's passed out in the shower from the sewer fumes."
Oh, dang it — he's entirely right. Steph tosses a quick behind her to see Cass's arm reaching from underneath the shower stall. When she turns back to Tim to tell him off for distracting her, the clock door is closing.
Well, fine. Two can play that game. Steph vows to get to the bottom to Tim's bullshit, right quick.
But first, she sprints to the showers to make sure Cass hasn't found a way to drown in an inch of water. And, well. If she gets a bit distracted, Steph's only a girl. What else is she to do when showering with her girlfriend?
➽───────────────❥
"Timmy, Timmy, Timmy, Timmy," Dick chants, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder while it rings. "Timmy, Timmy,. Timmy, Ti—."
"Dick," the brother in question answers.
"Timmy, Timmy!" Dick cheers.
"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia," Tim chants back at him, tone nasally. It cuts off into a sharp inhale and a groan.
"Aww, Cindy! Did I wake you up?"
"Yeah —," Tim breaks off to yawn. "Was napping. I've got a late call with Japan and then patrol." There's a rustling over the line.
And well, Dick is ecstatic to hear Tim's napping and a tad guilty to have interrupted. They're all a little sleep deprived. It'd been touch-and-go there for a while, with Tim balancing so much and unwilling to give up a single responsibility even after Bruce's return. There's a pride for his little brother that Dick wants to shout from the rooftops — but he knows Tim wouldn't appreciate it. So, instead he keeps it in, even though he feels full to bursting with it sometimes.
Like now.
Or maybe he just misses the kid. Between his own work in Bludhaven and Tim's frankly insane schedule, they haven't had a chance to chat or even touch base.
That, Dick decides, changes now.
The next time he sees Tim…. it's on site. Which will be the gala in just about 48 hours.
"Ice cream?" he asks, remembering that he's standing in the freezer aisle with a shopping basket hung from his elbow.
"Huh? Hang on, wait a second," Tim mutters.
Then there's another voice, distinctly male. The line becomes muffled — Dick assumes Tim is covering the phone. A woman with a very cranky toddler turns into the same aisle. Poor woman, the kid practically flings himself from the cart in an attempt to reach for popsicles. As she catches him, he begins screeching. Dick thinks he hears Tim say 'no, don't worry about it, babe' but he can't be sure. Truly, it's impossible to tell as the kid's screaming reaches new pitches. Actually, Dick might be impressed with the sheer volume from such a small body.
He presses the phone into his ear, covering the other as he scrunches his face in concentration. Babe?
"Hey, sorry about that," and Tim's voice practically blows out Dick's eardrum. "Oh wow, sounds like a zoo. Where are you?"
"Grocery store," Dick cups his mouth against the receiver. All he can hope is that Tim can understand him despite the noise. "Freezer aisle. You didn't text me what ice cream you want for the Post-Gala Sleepover. Want me to get your usual? Or are you feeling adventurous?"
"Oh." A pause, and every detective sense Dick hsd — finely honed over years of vigilante work — starts blaring. "Don't worry about it, I'm not spending the night after."
Dick has the terrible realization he's missed something. "You're not. Spending the night at the Manor? After a gala?"
Humming, Tim agrees. "No, we decided to go home to the Penthouse after."
We?
"We?" Dick prompts, eyebrows popping upwards.
Another hum. "Yeah, we'll probably pull an all-nighter, I have an early flight to Taiwan in the morning and we're going to sleep on the plane. Penthouse is closer to the airport too."
That explains nothing. "We?" Dick tries again. Tim doesn't answer. "Tim."
"Dick," comes back with a slight laugh.
"We?" Dick tries a third time, because he's nothing if not resilient and persistent. Plus, you know what they say about third times. The young mother finally has her kid back in the cart, and he's taking giant sniffling breaths. Dick smiles sheepishly and turns away, trying to get some semblance of privacy — which is actually impossible, considering he's standing stupidly right in front of the ice cream.
"Shockingly, I heard you just fine the first time. You aren't B, you can't interrogate through grunts and single words like he can." Then, because Tim's a little shit, he mutters something like not that it works on me anyway, as if Dick won't hear.
"Should I try guilt-tripping? Would that get you to spill?" Dick paces to the end of the aisle, where there's a shelf of a million toppings. Alfred definitely has most of these, and higher quality versions. Would Alfred try killing Dick if he brought home cheap sugar cones? Probably. "I can really ham it up, you know I'm good for it."
"Ooooh, I'm so scared. First off, it's only half as effective over the phone. It loses some of it's impact when you can't make the puppy dog eyes." Dick groans, conceding the point. Tim's right, and they both know it. As a consolation, Dick puts the box of cones into his basket. "Secondly, you taught me all the tricks of a good guilt-trip. I've become inoculated to it at this point."
"Wow, big word, inoculated. You studying for the SAT or something? Mr Big CEO over here, flexing his board room vocab on us plebs? Who're you trying to impress, Timmy?"
Tim snorts. "Jerk. We," he continues and ignores Dick wordless protest, "like to do crosswords together—."
"Hang on —,"
"And we are going back to sleep."
"— just a second —,"
"I'll see you at the gala, alright?"
"— Don't you dare hang up —."
"I'm hanging up now, Dick!" Tim practically shouts back.
"Tim!" Dick shouts, the line dead and the young mother glaring daggers at him. He smiles sheepishly. "Little brothers, am I right?"
Her little boy looks ready to start up again, staring as Dick and the cones in his basket. Scuttling off, Dick makes a hasty retreat. It's almost enough to make Dick forget about Tim and his cryptic comments.
But not quite. He's got 48 hours to solve the mystery — but Dick's managed more with less. So he makes a quick list of priorities in his head, and gets a little sense of urgency. After all, he wants to know how this we is.
➽───────────────❥
The thing about the executive suites of Wayne Enterprises is that it's fairly exclusive.
There's not a lot of foot traffic. And what little there is is limited to an extremely small pool of admin staff and the other executives.
Just then, at about seven-thirty in the morning, Bruce Wayne is alone in the suites. The morning is still a little hazy with last night's fog. Not that he notices much, nose in the analysis of an M&A proposal, digging for errors, purposely misconstrued numbers, but perhaps most importantly, any potential connections to the Maronis and Falcones.
It's been years since Bruce rooted the Mafia families from his company, where they'd managed to weasel their way in after his parents' deaths but before he took back the helm. And it's been an ongoing battle, despite all his work as Batman, to the keep the mob out of his company.
Tim did a great job while he was stuck in the time stream.
But it was ceaseless work. So here he is, the tail-end of dawn, sifting through decades of financial records of a tiny chip manufacturing plant in Taiwan.
It wouldn't be so bad, if he'd managed at least a little sleep the night before.
But Batman had been under high demand last night. Patrols without Robin drained him more and more — probably a symptom of his age, an issue Bruce was steadfastly ignoring. But Damian's second period history exam took priority over patrol. And so Robin sat out, much to his son's dismay.
Bruce sighs and rubs at his eyes. Really, it says quite a bit that his mind has wondered. Maybe he's more tired than he thought.
Damn, he swore, remembering the gala the following evening and realizing he had less time than he thought to process the analysis.
Fingers pressed into his temples, Bruce doesn't look up with the elevator opens down the hall. It's secure, the only way someone could get to the floor is with a code and an ID card. But, whispers the paranoia that lives in the base of Bruce's skull, someone could have hacked it.
He snakes one hand beneath his desk, fingers hovering over the panic button. Outwardly, he looks unchanged — just an exhausted CEO scrubbing a hand against his brow at an attempt to knead away eye-strain. Bruce braces, ready to spring to action.
The slide of the elevator door closing, the shush of shoes on carpet, and a low voice —
"Yeah, I'm almost to my office, let me let you go, ok?" A pause. "I will, I will, I promise." Then a chuckle.
Bruce let his hand fall away from the panic button. He knew that voice — certainly, how could he not? It was an easy skill to be able to identify all his children by voice alone, especially given all the time spent over in-ear communicators with them.
The question that springs to the front of Bruce's mind though is…. who could Tim be speaking with?
This question presses harder on Bruce, especially as Tim goes on to say, "Well, I can pick Duke up and meet you there, or we can all go together. Whatever you want, just let me know what you decide. I figure we'll get dinner, the three of us, after we're done with the fittings."
Someone Tim is comfortable with, someone he trusts — especially if this person is interacting with Duke as well. The list of possible parties is short. But Bruce throws out all of them and draws a blank when Tim murmurs, "You can't say stuff like that, now I'm going to be thinking about it all day. You're a menace."
Playful, teasing, a touch of heat.
Bruce prefers not to know much — or anything at all — about his children's intimate matters. But it's the nature of their mission and their work that sometimes Bruce has the unfortunate proximity to sensitive affairs. It's been a while since a Pollen Incident, or that intimate measures needed taken. He feels like he's missed something.
There wasn't a change to Tim's protocol… had there?
Just before Tim turns to the corner, allowing Bruce visibility of him, he manages to hang up the phone. It's a scant half-second between Tim rounds the corner and spotting Bruce, his face sliding into surprise. And Bruce, for all his muster and bluster, fails to look anything but utterly exhausted and confused.
Because he is. He is both of those things, to an nth degree and then some. He's so tired and confused.
"Bruce," Tim says, tone lilting with his shock. "I didn't think you'd be in this early. Wow, you look rough. Did you get any sleep last night?"
Tim, for his criticism, looks well rested and immaculately put together. It's a shame because Bruce can't fall back on his easy self-defense: deflection and calls to hypocrisy. Instead, he grimaces and mumbles, "A little."
"Yeah, I think 'a little' is generous. Really, this is much earlier than your usual hours. What's so important to have you in before dawn?" Without asking permission, Tim slides into Bruce's office and around the side of his desk. He drops his briefcase onto a spare chair before leaning over to peer at Bruce's monitor with him.
Bruce tries not to let himself get distracted. Tim's set his phone down, screen up, where he has his hand braced. The lock screen dims before Bruce can get a good look — and identify — the wallpaper. "The records from M&A."
"On the plant in Taiwan?" Bruce hums a confirmation. "You know I'm flying out to see the facilities in person after the Gala, right?"
"Yes." He does know that. "I wanted to make sure there were no… disreputable connections before you departed."
Tim raises an eyebrow and straightens up. Hands on his hips, Tim tilts his head. "Of course. For my safety. How far have you gotten? Send me your notes, Tam and I can work through it today. We cleared my schedule so I can step out early." In response to the look Bruce slants at him, "I'm picking up Duke from school so we can do our final fittings before the gala."
It's confirmation of the information Bruce deducted from the… well, 'eavesdropping' feels too strong of a word. "I can do it."
"Take a nap," Tim grouses. "Seriously, you look like you're going to drop dead. The board will have a fit, imagine how many points we'll lose if it's reported you fainted during a meeting. And then Mr. Thickly on the Board won't be able to buy his fourth wife her fifth estate, it'll be the end of the company, Bruce."
Bruce is too tired to laugh, but he manages a small smile. "I'm the CEO."
"And as CEO, you have a duty to the profits of the company. Think of the profits, Bruce, when you face plant mid-meeting due to sleep deprivation and we have to fend off another hostile takeover from the Board."
"I won't —,"
"You aren't convincing —,"
"I'm fine —."
"I'm calling Alfred so he can drag you home by the ear, Bruce —."
"— absolutely no need to bother Alfred —."
"I don't think you can define 'fine', you might need to check the dictionary. After a nap —."
"Gentlemen," a new voice adds. Bruce and Tim look up from the thick of their bickering to Tam standing in the doorway to Bruce's office. She's dressed sharply in a pant suit and sling-back heels, a stack of files balanced perfectly in one arm.
As always, she reminds Bruce fiercely of her father. The trick must be learned from Lucius, for Bruce feels equally as chastised by the simple unamused tilt of a brow. Tim is unphased and only smirks. Tam huffs, escalating her vexation.
"Mr. Drake," she chastises and Tim rolls his eyes. "Are you making more work for me?"
"Just a bit," Tim agrees easily. He straightens up. With a quick tap of the screen, Tim checks his phone and slides it into his pocket all before Bruce can get a good look — but he thinks he sees a selfie, Tim's face pressed up against another person's, both with wide smiles. But he can't be sure — not that he gets to ruminate on it long, because Tim gestures down at him with a wide sweep of his arm, saying, "Look, he's about to pass out. I was putting him down for a nap but he's insisting this M&A review needs finished before we board tomorrow."
"Mr. Wayne." Tam turns the disapproving tone onto Bruce. "I believe my father has a prototype that needs your urgent attention."
Paired with the raised eyebrow, they code couldn't be more clear. Bruce stands, keeping his groan to himself and does up the button on his jacket as soon as he's fully upright.
We, the lock screen wallpaper, the phone call and details therein.
The body language between Tm and Tim as they snipe at each other, the timing of her arrival. Tim's seeing someone, but it isn't Tam. No, that ship has sailed.
But Bruce can't shake it. It concerns him, deeply, that he managed to overlook something so pivotal.
A phone wallpaper? That's practically public knowledge, easily visible to even a passing prying eye. Bruce has missed something, and something huge.
Again, his pondering is cut short. There's an uncanny moment where both Tim and Tam turn on him, and now they both have the sharp eyebrow. He's too tired for this.
"I'm going," he promises. Tam inclines her head, pleased and hefts her files a little higher in her arms, which urges Tim to take them from her like the polite young man he is.
"Don't worry about the analysis, Bruce. All else fails, I work on it during the flight." Easily, Tim shifts the file to under his arm, and casually pushes his hands into his slacks pockets.
A sting of anxiety throbs up Bruce's spine. "And if —."
"We find something off, even the tiniest bit out of the norm, we'll reroute the flight," Tim assures. "Deal?"
We again. We, we, we.
Bruce peers at Tim. Tim smiles back, guileless.
"Alright," he concedes.
"One of us will come get you in an hour!" Tim calls after him. With just a wave, Bruce leaves it to them, passing off the torch to the next generation of Wayne Enterprises.
Of course, there's no sign of Lucius in the secret portion of the prototype lab. But there is a cot, and Bruce is fairly sure he's out before his head even hits the pillow.