Archive of Our Own

Tim

“ Yes , there will be refreshments, but in no circumstances will any of you be taking them. Off limits. Jason, I said off limits .”

Bruce had been talking for at least twenty minutes nonstop at this point, Tim reckoned, tossing a chipped wing ding into the air and catching it by the tail. Something about a gala, undercover, charity fraud scheme or something. Tim wasn’t sure, he’d get the briefing the night of. He never paid attention to these things.

“—The name of the man is Arthur Ridge—”

Great, Tim could Google that later. He zoned out again.

Dick was still in his Nightwing garb, smelling like he’d forgotten deodorant before patrol, and had kicked back in the chair with one foot dangling half above his head. For anyone else, it looked painful, but Dick was probably just stretching his hamstring or something. Sometimes Tim was jealous of that flexibility, but it also freaked him out, so. Yeah.

“—claiming that a hefty chunk of the money would go to charity, but the selected families never received their checks—”

From the look of it, Jason was paying about as much attention to Bruce’s spiel as Tim was. He was sprawled over the table, face down in his arms, only having reacted the one time when Bruce had mentioned the fated refreshments. He twitched every once in a while. A vibe, honestly, and one that Tim could respect.

“—the hospital is losing funds instead of gaining them, and the medical staff—”

Damian, of course, was perked up like a little flower that had just been watered, staring intently at Bruce like the teacher’s pet he was. Little demon. He’d probably be happy if Bruce pulled out a whiteboard and started talking actual, statistical numbers. Which honestly, Tim would probably be fine with.

He liked numbers.

“—Nightwing and Red Hood will be joining me on the floor in civilian persona. That will be all. Dismissed.”

That caught Tim’s attention. He poked his head up from the pillow of his arms.

“What? Are me and Robin going to be on the roof, or something?”

At that, Damian sat up even straighter somehow. He narrowed his eyes at Bruce. “An excellent question.”

Did the demon just compliment me?

Bruce braced both hands on the conference table, his face looking strangely bare without the mask. “This will be a three man mission only. There is no need for any other coverage.”

“Extra coverage never hurts,” Tim inserted quickly. Batman said that all the time in the field.

From across the table, Jason said, “Are we ignoring the fact that the demon just complimented Timberlina?”

Naturally, Jason was ignored.

“It will be late,” Bruce said. “Everyone under 18 should be in bed, Robin especially.”

Tim had a feeling he was leaving something out. Something important.

Standing up with one finger stabbed in the air, Damian snapped, “I will not be sent to bed like a child during an important mission! I have stayed up until the last hour before this night, and I will continue to do so!”

“And galas don’t even go that long,” Tim added. “11 at the most, usually, especially ones raising money for kids since all the guests are parents. And Alfred kicks everybody out before then.”

“This gala is exclusively for adults.” Bruce’s even voice grew silvery sharp, like the tip of Damian’s gleaming katana. Tim watched the way his hands tightened on the lip of the table with narrowed eyes. “Red Robin and Robin will not fly that night. If you say anything else about it,” he added, casting a glance over at Damian’s opening mouth, “Neither of you will be patrolling until Christmas. Am I understood?”

Jason sucked air in through his teeth. “Oof. Grounded.”

“Am I understood ?” Bruce repeated. He speared Tim with a look, and Tim folded like a wet paper towel. Facing authority did that to him.

“Understood. Batman .” If he sounded bitchy enough, maybe Bruce would feel bad.

“Understood, Baba.” Damian sank back down in his chair, looking mutinous. “Let it be known—”

“Red Robin, Robin, you are dismissed,” Bruce cut him off. “Go upstairs, set the table or unload the dishwasher or something.”

Or something , Tim mouthed to himself, pushing himself away from the table. He let his chair scrape obnoxiously, hoping it hurt Bruce’s ears. Naturally, Batman didn’t flinch, just stood with his arms braced against the table, watching both of them stomp upstairs like moody teenagers.

Which Tim was. Damian, not quite.

⧫

Jason

“Okay…” Jason said slowly as the light disappeared from the staircase leading to the manor. “So what was that about? Why are the babies benched?”

“Can I have a snack, please?” Dick asked before Bruce could answer. “I’m glad we’re having this conversation, I’m like, super ready for it, but if I don’t eat something I will break the “no kill” rule and eat Jaybird’s arm.”

Jason tilted his head. “Why my arm?”

“Your biceps are huge , man.”

“Oh, you noticed?” Jason flexed, appreciating the way his own bicep looked in his suit. He could see the veins rippling up his arm. Did that mean it was too tight? “I started this new routine where I only eat steak—”

“Boys, focus, please .” Bruce had pinched his nose and was rubbing his eyes with one thumb, his hair looking greyer than usual in the cave’s dim lighting. With the other hand, he reached into his loosened utility belt and passed Dick a protein bar.

The moment Nightwing, the fabled superhero, got his hands on it, he tore the aluminum wrapper open and sent crumbs flying all across the table. He did not apologize for the mess, instead scarfing down the first half like a starving raccoon. He didn’t even chew .

Jason was almost fascinated at the speed at which he ate it, but he was too disgusted to look into the science of it.

“Tim and Damian are barred from the gala for a reason.”

Jason glanced up. “Knew it.”

“Worlds greatest detective right here,” Dick said with his mouth full, jabbing a thumb at Jason.

“Arthur Ridge has long been suspected of pedophilia and posession of child porography,” Bruce said.

Dick’s crunching stopped. Jason quit tapping his foot. Both of them looked up.

“I hate to drag either of you into this,” Bruce continued, his voice getting gentler. “But if we can nail him for the charity fraud, the previous charges will be reopened for further investigation.” Bruce sat in the chair he hadn’t been using, the lines in his face looking deeper than normal. “Of course, I know both of your experiences with these types of things. If either of you feel too uncomfortable—”

“Come on, Bruce, like either of us are going to give up the chance to screw with a pedo. Right, Dickie?”

Dick nodded severely, mouth still full of chalky protein bar. “Uh huh.”

“Good. I thought you might say something like that.” Bruce stood again. He couldn’t seem to sit still. “And just to reiterate what I said earlier, Tim and Damian are forbidden to join this mission. Under zero circumstances will they be allowed in the gala hall when that man is in it. Understood?”

“The gala hall , what the hell, just say ballroom —”

“Capice,” Dick said. He crumpled the protein bar wrapper in one hand and tossed it towards the trash. “Both of them stay upstairs. Got it.”

“Jason?” Narrowing his eyes, Bruce zeroed in on his middle child. “Do you—”

Jason rolled his eyes and threw himself back in his chair, draping his giant torso over the back of it so that the poor steel groaned beneath his weight. “I get it, I get it. No pedos near the kiddos. Thought that was self explanatory.”

“It is,” Bruce said. “But I mean more along the lines of, do not tell Tim and Damian what’s going on here. I know them, and I know they want to help, but given the past history of pedophiles lingering around children’s charities, I’d like to keep them as safe as possible.”

Jason made a sloppy X over his heart with his index finger. “Cross my heart. I’ll keep it on the down low.”

As lackadaisical as his body language was, they knew him. They knew Jason protected kids. He’d use real bullets before letting Tim or Damian near Arthur Ridge.

“Good.” Bruce finally stood to his full height, not hunched over the conference table, and stretched his back. “We’ll finish this discussion tomorrow. As far as I’m concerned, we have enough information to get started. Dismissed.”

⧫

Tim

“I bet it’s ‘cause I don’t have a spleen,” Tim decided, tossing an apple into the air. Laying on his back on the kitchen island wasn’t necessarily prime position for apple tossing, and he had almost dropped it on his face several times. “Which in that case, it’s ableism, and I can sue.”

“I might reconsider suing , considering you would have to reveal all of our identities to the public in a court of law.” Damian dipped his apple in peanut butter and swirled it around, scowling down at the counter top. “I don’t see why I should suffer the detriments of your missing organ. You and I are two completely separate entities.”

“It’s probably because you’re five,” Tim pointed out. “It’ll be past your bedtime.”

Damian launched an apple slice at Tim and it pegged him straight in the forehead. “Let us not belittle either of our intellects,” he sniffed. “We both know that I am eleven. ”

“Big whoop,” Tim muttered. He rolled over on the counter so he could shove his head in his arms, nearly knocking the bowl of fruit onto the floor. After a few minutes of consideration, which included kicking his feet just so they narrowly missed Damian’s face with every swing, he popped back up. “You know, it would be so easy to sneak in.”

Damian scoffed. He crunched on another apple slice. “It has previously been proven foolish to disobey father.”

“You literally ran away when you were eight,” Tim shot back. “And you haven’t matured much since then. Don’t act like you don’t want to.”

“Perhaps my issue is with you and not the idea itself,” Damian mused. “But that’s beside the point. Father would recognize us in an instant, despite any costume, and we would both be grounded until Christmas.” He scoffed and stabbed a serving toothpick into the peanut butter. “Juvenile.”

“We could dress up as security guards,” Tim suggested. Face down again, his voice was muddled by his shirt. “Or sick kids.”

“I am not shaving my head to blend in for a leukemia charity event,” Damian snapped. “You should not either.”

“We could say we’re doing it in solidarity.”

“Drake, you have tried to pull off a buzzcut before, and it was unflattering. If you were bald it would be even worse.”

“Asshole,” Tim muttered. He dug his forehead into his shirt, enjoying the way the buttons poked his skin. “Okay, fine. We could still be security, though.”

“Father has never hired child workers,” Damian pointed out. “And while I have potential to grow, you do not. We are not of adult stature.”

Tim sat up, brushing granola crumbs off his pants, and hopped off the counter. “Fine. You do what you want, but I’m going to the gala. They’re hiding something important, and I’m not gonna just stand by and watch . They could get really hurt.”

Damian scrambled after him. “I am not saying I do not want to partake, but I value my identity as Robin much more than a single night at a gala! Drake!”

Tim dodged him and jogged upstairs to the floor where their bedrooms were. Whether Damian was in or not, Tim was going to that gala. All he had to do was find a way to blend in.

He wasn’t fast enough in shutting his door before Damian barged in behind him. “Fine,” his little brother announced, like he was doing Tim some big favor. “I shall assist in this mission.”

“It’s not a mission, Dami, it’s a stakeout . They could get really hurt without us.”

“That’s what I said,” Damian dismissed. He sat on the floor, cross legged, while Tim dug through his closet. “And, despite your juvenile attempts at disguises, I have come up with one that might actually work.”

Tim turned around, interest piqued. “Show me.”

⧫

Bruce

After the debrief, Bruce put his hand over Jason’s wrist to keep him at the table while Dick disappeared upstairs. His oldest was still sweaty from patrol, his eyes half-lidded and tired, and he was so barely functioning that he didn’t even notice he was walking upstairs alone. As soon as the blue of Dick’s uniform turned the corner, Jason raised an eyebrow at him.

“What’s up, B?”

Bruce didn’t deserve him. Slowly, he traced his thumb along the tendon of Jason’s wrist, feeling it tense up as his son grew uncomfortable at the touch. Bruce pulled away before Jason had to.

“I know you have experience with these kinds of things,” he said.

“You mean pedophiles,” Jason said flatly. “I have experience with pedophiles.”

Bruce sucked his teeth. His kid was so blunt . He got it from Bruce. “I don’t want to trigger anything in you. If you’re uncomfortable being around Arthur Ridge, tell me, and I’ll keep you away from him. Dick and I will work this case alone.”

It would be harder, certainly, but Bruce would risk most anything for his child’s comfort. He wished he could hold on to Jason for this conversation, like he had when he was young. Younger.

Jason leaned back in his chair again, his sweater pulling tightly around his shoulders. With his feet splayed on the arm of the chair, his sweatpants rode up above his ankles. Bruce wondered if he should buy him some better fitting clothes.

“Believe it or not, B,” Jason said, crossing his arms, “I’ve handled a rapist before. As long as they ain’t touching me, we’re good.”

“He will not touch you,” Bruce said firmly. He was almost startled at the steely hardness in his own tone, but it only strengthened his sentiment.

“If he touches me, he’s losin’ his fingers,” Jason warned.

“He’ll lose his whole damn arm if he lays a hand on either you or Dick,” Bruce swore. “That’s a promise.”

As soon as Jason scowled and looked away, Bruce gave him the dignity of pretending not to see the tension in his shoulders, giving away his discomfort. When he next opened his mouth, he stuck with facts, mostly to comfort himself, but also Jason. “It’s likely he won’t even notice you,” he said. “From what we’ve picked up, Ridge seems to aim for kids between eight and seventeen, depending on their physical maturity. There seems to be a… sweet spot at twelve to sixteen.”

Twelve and sixteen. Nearly Damian’s age and Tim’s age exactly.

At nineteen and twenty two, Jason and Dick were safe. The kids, not so much.

Jason breathed in slowly through his nose, and Bruce tried not to watch the way his eyes flickered green. He resisted the urge to rub his son’s back. The kid was so, so protective of street kids and their families, always making sure the shelters in Crime Alley were full and no one was left in the cold Gotham streets that didn’t have to be. Though Jason wouldn’t admit it, kids were his soft spot, and everyone knew it.

“I’ll be fine, B,” Jason finally said. “Let’s just get the fucker off the streets.”

Bruce didn’t even reprimand him for his language.

“Agreed.”

⧫

Before he went to bed, Bruce checked on his kids. He did every night, but tonight he was feeling a little extra vigilant. He had sent Jason to bed an hour ago and knew he would wake up at any light, so Bruce stayed away from his door.

Dick, first. After a rough, rough patrol, he’d decided to sleep over at the manor. “Decided” being a strong word, considering Bruce had forbidden him from driving, half asleep as he was.

Dick was flopped over his childhood bed, hair wet, his uniform a crumpled pile on the floor. He was half dressed in boxers and a t-shirt with only one arm through the armhole, but at least he was mostly on the bed. His torso was on the mattress along with one leg, but he was twisted so weirdly that his other foot was flat on the floor. When Bruce saw the goosebumps on his son’s skin, he stepped fully into the room, shaking his head. Dick may have been a gymnast, but some positions were just too awful to sleep in, even for him.

Making sure to leave plenty of light, Bruce shook Dick’s shoulder. “Hey. Chum.”

Dick swung his head up with half-alert eyes, his hair flopping wetly across his forehead. When he saw it was Bruce and not a threat, he dropped back down onto his duvet.

“B.”

Bruce bit his cheek to ward off his smirk. “Hey. Come on, get under the covers and fix your shirt. You’re cold.”

“ You fix your shirt,” Dick complained, completely nonsensical. He shoved his face into his mattress. “Go to sleep.”

“I wish I could,” Bruce muttered. Then, because he was a fantastic father, he managed to pull Dick’s other arm through his shirt and pull it down his body accordingly. When he was properly clothed (which he never seemed to be), Bruce shoved at him until he was snugly under the covers, head on his pillow and eyes closed tight. Gently, Bruce combed Dick’s wild hair off his forehead and bent to kiss his temple. “Goodnight, chum,” he said quietly.

Dick didn’t even twitch.

When Bruce left, the door shut with a soft click behind him.

Tim’s room was just down the hall, and Bruce could hear soft music playing inside. Seated at his desk, Tim was bopping his head to the beat, one foot up on his chair, typing rhythmically on his laptop. Bruce caught a glimpse of a performance report of the marketing manager at WE, noticing that Tim was typing notes in the margins. The kid was drawing up annual reviews at two in the morning.

Like father like son, despite their non-biological relation.

Bruce made sure to make plenty of noise as he stepped inside the room. “Tim.”

Tim glanced up. “Hey, B. I’m almost done with Beverly’s report, and I’ll go on to Tank’s next. He’s head of the architecture department.”

Bruce resisted the urge to smile. Parenting was more important than performance reviews. “You can finish up in the morning. It’s time for bed, kiddo.”

Tim gestured to the fizzy soda next to him, which was making a water mark on his desk. “I’m not sleepy, don’t worry. I can finish.”

“That wasn’t my concern.” Reaching forward, Bruce saved Tim’s work and closed the laptop, noting the way his kid’s hands were trembling. Too much caffeine would do that. “Bedtime, Tim. Come on.”

“Hey!”

“It’s saved, don’t worry. Let’s go. Did you brush your teeth?”

Tim whined as Bruce pulled him out of his desk chair, weakly resisting all the way to his bed. Even as he tucked Tim beneath the blankets, his child was insisting on reviewing the reports. “It’ll take five minutes, I swear. Come on, just let me—”

Bruce pulled the blankets up to his chin and ruffled Tim’s hair. “Goodnight, kiddo.”

Tim pouted. His face was scrunched and his cheeks were puffed out, so Bruce couldn’t resist giving him a peck on the head. At that, Tim’s glare softened and he buried his blush in the blankets.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly.

“Hm.”

Bruce let the door slide shut, staying outside Tim’s room for a few minutes just in case the lights came back on and he had to intervene again. Luckily, all stayed dark and quiet, so Bruce went to check on Damian.

His youngest’s sound machine was making soft rain sounds and the fan was blowing gently, facing towards the bed. Directly in its flow and curled up like a comma, Damian was dead asleep, his dark hair fluttering against his forehead. One of his fists was shoved under his pillow, and Bruce was sure if he looked beneath it there’d be a knife in a death grip.

Bruce smiled. For all his tenacity and belligerence, Damian sure was cute.

He didn’t speak as he closed the door, because Damian was sure to wake up furious if he thought anyone looked in on him as he slept.

Bruce went to bed reassured.

⧫

Tim

Two nights later, after Bruce, Dick, and Jason had rushed downstairs to the biggest ballroom (already late), Tim and Damian looked at each other.

“Do we have the outfits?” Tim asked. He kept his voice low, just in case Alfred was still lurking around.

“I have hidden them in a compartment in Alfred’s cat tree,” Damian affirmed quietly. “We will have to lint roll them before the event starts.” He scowled as both of them headed toward the den, his shoulders scrunching. “It would have been helpful if Father had left on time. Being fashionably late is, despite his pretenses, rude . And he lives in this house! For what reason would he be late ?”

Tim snorted. “We’ll just sneak in around the back,” he said. Once they reached the cat tree, he pulled out his suit jacket and the ruffled, white ascot, trying to brush off the cat fur. Beside him, Damian pulled out his slacks and struggled to pull the belt from the loops. “This thing is hideous,” Tim muttered, holding it an arm’s length from his body. “Are the waiters seriously wearing this thing?”

“Yes,” Damian said flatly. He shoved down his sweatpants and stuck one leg through the slacks. “I found it in the shipment of clothes Alfred had ordered for the gala. I caught a glimpse of a waiter entering the manor this afternoon, and she was similarly dressed.”

Tim managed to fasten the buttons on his sleeve and tried to fasten the ties of the ascot around his neck, tucking them beneath his shirt collar. Dragging the lint roller over the thick, hot fabric of his suit jacket, he hoped he looked put together enough. “We’re gonna be so hot ,” he muttered. “This thing weighs like fifty pounds.”

“And yet you still look undignified,” Damian surmised. He brushed cat hair off his shoulder. “You have fur on your ass.”

“Better than being up my ass.” Tim raked the lint roller up his behind and shoved it back in the cat tree. “Okay. Good enough?”

Damian surveyed him with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow. “I think good would be giving you too much credit. You certainly look like waitstaff, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Don’t shit on the lower class, dude. Not cool.” Tim headed for the door. “C’mon. Before we miss everything.”

⧫

Luckily, gaining entry to the gala via the kitchen's back entrance proved unexpectedly simple. Amidst the flurry of activity, Tim and Damian were ushered in without proper verification. Tim mentally noted to discuss this security oversight with Bruce after the chaos, deciding it could be a potential vulnerability for disguised individuals to infiltrate. Of course, this was exactly what he and Damian were doing, but their intentions were pure!

“Grab a tray,” Tim hissed, shoving Damian toward the table full of plated hors d'oeuvres.

“I don’t know how to carry it!” Damian snapped back. “I have never served !”

“Never in your life,” Tim muttered. Never served in the military, never served a look, never served cunt, never … Okay, he was getting carried away. He grabbed a tray himself, one with stick-thin, stemmed glasses of champagne, and gritted his teeth. “Just… just hold it in one hand, kind of close to your body. It’s a balance thing. I know you can balance stuff.”

“I am a vigilante ,” Damian growled. “I know how to balance things.” And then Tim’s little brother proved himself to be a fairly competent waiter as he chose a silver-rimmed plate topped with finger food, balancing it effortlessly on his fingertips.

Tim rolled his eyes and headed for the door, ducking to avoid a server, a real server carrying a tray of empty glasses. Damian followed close on his heels. Once they were out of the hot, chaotic kitchen, it felt easier to breathe.

Ladies in long, jewel-toned dresses and gentlemen in expensive suits filled the ballroom, hovering near booths set up describing research and the extent of the charities. Tim kept his eyes peeled for his family and Arthur Ridge, especially watching out near the charity booths.

He nearly bumped into a lady from behind since he was so focused on keeping an eye out, barely catching himself by offering his tray to her. “Champagne?” he asked.

Luckily, since they were at a charity event for kids, most everybody seemed to be pretty nice. 

“Oh! No, thank you, though.” she said, smiling easily. “I will have an hors d'oeuvre, though. What are these?”

Tim watched with pursed lips, trying not to cackle, as Damian slowly held up his tray, acting like serving the public was killing him. He was so mad his face was getting red. “They are a mozzarella and cracker base, topped by basil and tomato puree,” he gritted out.

The lady took one carefully, setting it on her little plate. “Do you mind if I get another one?” she asked. “My son is over by the osteosarcoma research booth, and he hasn’t had a bite all night. I’d love to bring him one.”

Damian’s face was getting redder. He was probably about to explode. “We’ll go bring him a few!” Tim said quickly. If his hands hadn’t been full, he would have pinched Damian for his terrible deep-cover acting. “Have a great night, and, um, enjoy!”

She watched them walk away, her brows drawn together in confusion, but eventually turned back to her conversation.

Once they were several feet away, Tim snapped, “You almost just screwed us!” and greatly resisted the urge to trip his little brother. He weaved around an old fat guy, not Arthur Ridge, and circled toward the osteosarcoma research booth.

“She looked at me as if I was a peasant !” Damian hissed. “She did not thank me for my service! I have been degraded !”

Tim scoffed. “Like you thank the servers at galas,” he shot back. “She probably just forgot. At least she wasn’t a dick, like you usually are to the waiters.”

Damian kept his scowl as they approached the research booth, staying stubbornly behind Tim. There was a tall guy leaning against the counter, talking to the college students running the booth, his back to both of them. Tim stepped up beside him and presented his tray to the students. “Hello!” he greeted, stubbornly keeping his guise of practiced professionalism and bubbly customer service. “Can I offer you a glass— oh, shit.”

The guy, who was not a normal guy, turned around. In his tailored, deep red suit with black accents, Jason looked more like a model than Tim’s completely insane big brother.

When Jason saw who was offering the refreshments, his brow arched. He leaned against the booth like a douchebag leaned against a door frame, looming over Tim. “Fancy meetin’ you here,” he drawled. Tim noticed he wasn’t bothering to mask his Crime Alley twang.

Behind them, Damian was trying to back away, but Jason fixed him in place with a single stare. Big brothers could do that.

“What the hell are you guys doing here? Didn’t Bruce tell you to stay upstairs?”

Before Tim or Damian could make up some excuse as to why they were attending the forbidden gala in server garb, Jason took their trays and handed them to a conveniently empty-handed waiter. He turned back to the research students, focused on the guy in the blue with red hair. “You have my number. Text me.”

Oh. The accent was for flirting.

Then, he ruthlessly grabbed Tim and Damian by their sleeves and hauled them off to a corner. Once he had them against the wall, he crossed his arms. “Start talking.”

Tim quickly opened his mouth, eager to get his word in first and soften everything up, but Damian beat him to it. “As if you would have not done the same thing, had you been forbidden from such a mission.” The little demon crossed his arms petulantly against his ascot, the ruffles dampening his rage. “Drake and I have decided to keep watch. As…” he gritted his teeth. “As servers we can easily fly within the radar.”

“Under the radar,” Jason corrected flatly. Then, he reached forward and smacked both of them in the heads.

“Ow!”

“You coward !”

“Believe it or not,” Jason said, as if he hadn’t just whacked them, “Bruce has a reason for keeping you two upstairs.”

“And what is this reason ?” Damian needled.

“Your job isn’t to find out the reason, it’s to listen to him.” Jason crossed his arms again. “Both of you have been or are Robin, and you should know that. Your orders may seem stupid, but in my experience, B is pretty rarely wrong about the shit he tells you to do.”

Tim scowled. “He’s treating us like we’re ten .”

“You’re kids,” Jason said, shrugging. “Like it or not, both of you are underage, and Bruce is in charge.”

“Like you’ve been such a perfect little listener your whole life,” Tim countered.

“And I died , remember, smartass?” Jason rolled his eyes at him, reaching a hand forward to flick Tim’s chin. “Anyway. Point stands. Ya’ll gotta split before B sees you.”

“You’re not ratting us out?” Tim nearly melted into the floor in relief. “Jason, I—”

“Yeah, yeah. I ain’t helping you get outta here either, though. Hope you can make it all the way back to the kitchen before he sees ya.”

Damian huffed. “You give us too little credit, Todd. We have made it this far.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, then. Oh, but…” Jason reached forward, his huge stature trapping them both, and yanked their ruffled ascots off their collars. “You look stupid in these. Have fun, kiddos.”

Then he walked off with the ascots in his hand, practically whistling, leaving Damian and Tim exposed in the corner.

Tim knocked his head back against the wall. He wished he’d tried some of that champagne, now. “Dammit,” he muttered. “And we were so close.”

“ And Todd has taken the most valuable piece of our disguises,” Damian scowled. “Now, Father will know to look for us because we are short , and the ascot will not deter him!”

Tim groaned again. This just kept getting worse. “Right. Okay. We’ll have to go separately. If he gets a tip that we’re here, he’ll be looking for a pair.”

“I have no objection to escaping on my own,” Damian sniffed. “In fact, I much prefer it.”

“Great,” Tim said flatly. When Damian stayed put, back pressed to the wall with zero plans to move, he added. “Then go.”

“I shall go behind you,” Damian decided. “If you get caught, that gives me a better window for escape.”

“So generous,” Tim muttered, but he headed into the fray anyway.

He tried to stick behind ladies with bigger dresses, hiding behind their layered skirts, and to men that were either obese or very tall. Considering Tim was neither of those things it worked fairly well. At one point, he considered walking behind the booths and staying close to the wall, but decided against it. People would notice someone walking behind the booths. It would be weird.

He was halfway across the floor and making great progress with his use-people-as-a-shield method when he heard a snatch of Brucie’s gala laugh. Then, he saw him, holding a flute of champagne and talking to a tall woman in a pantsuit.

Shit !

Tim scrambled behind a very tall, overweight man, trying not to be too obvious. The guy’s belly hung over his thick leather belt and he smelled like body odor beneath his Versace cologne, but he worked as a fairly decent wall.

At least he did until Tim realized the man was looking at him with both eyebrows raised up to his hairline.

“Well, hello there,” he said. His voice was gravelly but not hostile, more surprised than anything.

“Hey,” Tim said awkwardly. He took an awkward step back. “Sorry. I. Uh.”

“Hiding from someone?” For some reason, the guy reached forward and patted Tim’s shoulder, his sausage-like fingers lingering for a minute on his shoulder pad. Tim didn’t think much of it; gala people were always touchy.

“Yeah, kind of,” Tim said. He tried to peek over the man’s shoulder to see if Bruce was still there.

He was.

“Who are you hiding from?”

“My. Uh. My brother.” Tim subtly stepped back again to avoid the man’s odor. He was followed when he took the step back, which was also weird, but the guy was probably just trying to help him hide.

“Who’s your brother?”

Don’t say Dick or Jason. Don’t say Damian . “Um.” Tim could only think of the name of the mission target, dammit. “Arthur…” he snatched a look around the room, his eyes catching on the golden filigree decor. “Gold. His name is Arthur Gold.”

Great. So great. What a terrible fake name. He should have just said Alvin Draper.

“Oh, what a coincidence! My name is Arthur, too!”

Tim snapped his gaze to the man’s, Arthur’s , eyes. They were small and brown and watery, the color of a decrepit brick wall. He was old and overweight and matched Bruce’s shoddy description fairly well, as did his location, prowling around next to the charity booths.

Arthur Ridge. The target.

Bingo! Tim wouldn’t be nearly as screwed if he nailed the guy for charity fraud at the gala! Bruce couldn’t even be mad at him!

All he had to do was get him talking, because criminals always yapped when they were flattered. Tim was pretty good at that.

“Oh!” Tim said. He stopped trying to get away and decided to just deal with the stench. “That’s great! I’ve heard a ton about you!”

Ridge looked pleased as a puffed up bird to hear that. Most criminals were usually pretty proud to get their name out there. Either that or he was just a cocky old man. “Oh?” he prompted.

“Yeah.” Tim put his hands in his pockets and slouched a little. “Your name is all over this event, dude. You literally have a sign over there!” He pointed to the list of donation contributors hanging near the buffet table. “You must donate a lot, huh?”

Arthur started to puff up again, his beer belly swelling further out from his belt. He took a step closer to Tim. “I donate quite a bit, yes. I’m one of the biggest names in the donation section on the Gotham Central Hospital’s website. You should check it out.”

“Oh, for sure!” Tim agreed. “Who are some of the families you’ve donated to?”

Arthur blanched. Nailed it.

“Oh well… I’ve helped— helped so many I can’t remember a specific name… the Browns, I suppose, they were… they were a grateful recipient.”

Damn. Brown. Such a common name, if it even belonged to a real family.

Ridge waved a hand, like a king dismissing his subjects. “But enough about me, sweetheart.”

Oh. Ew.

“What’s your name? You never told me.”

“Tim,” Tim said, because first names were usually safe. He avoided his last name entirely; either Drake or Wayne seemed uncertain.

“Nice to meet you, Timmy.” Oh, even grosser. “How old are you? You look very grown up.” To Tim’s surprise, Ridge stepped even closer to him, so close his thin Versace cologne crowded the air between them. The man touched his elbow, then dragged his hand up Tim’s arm to his shoulder. His thumb grazed the tendons in Tim’s neck.

Okay. So. The Drakes had been to a lot of galas, even when Tim was little. From four and up, he could remember being carted along in a tiny suit and tie, fawned over by old ladies and mothers and fathers alike. He’d been passed around a lot, from arms to arms, because he was just so cute they could eat him up!

But the touch hadn’t been like this until he was at least ten. The first time an old lady had touched him weirdly. She’d petted his shoulders like a cat and then she’d touched his stomach , wiggling wrinkly, spindly fingers between the gaps in his suit. She’d told him his skin was soft. Tim had pulled away.

His parents hadn’t believed him.

When he got older, it kept happening. Old people liked touching him, especially from the chest down, except for one man who flicked his nipple to watch it peak beneath his paper-white shirt. They’d poke and prod, act like they were fixing his suit when really, their hands were too gripping to be any sort of mistake.

Tim didn’t like it when strangers touched him. Arthur Ridge was no different.

But standing here, hiding from Bruce, Dick, and Jason, if he pulled away or made any sort of scene, he’d be discovered. He’d be grounded .

Arthur was a pretty good shield, despite his… friendliness. Tim was stuck.

“This is a very nice suit for such a strapping young boy,” Arthur said. He plucked at Tim’s starchy collar, his fingertips grazing his neck again. He was breathing heavily, like he was trying to capture Tim’s scent in his lungs. “Your tailor must have fit it special for you. Do you like the suit, Timmy?”

Tim wanted to pull back. Ridge’s sausage fingers were wiggling under his collar, prying the jacket away from the shirt. This suit hadn’t even been tailored; it had been pulled out of a box and was Damian’s best guess at something remotely his size. “I like it.”

“You know,” hot breath on his face — “you really need to be careful wearing things that fit you so well. People might start to get ideas.”

Tim couldn’t believe this was actually happening. His feet felt glued to the ground and his mouth was sealed closed… Why couldn’t he move ?

Ridge’s fingers were under the jacket now, feeling along the bones of his shoulder, one thumb stroking Tim’s collarbone. Wherever that thumb moved, it felt like it left a trail on Tim’s skin where beetles crawled under his skin. When it dipped lower, he scraped his nail over Tim’s nipple so hard that it hurt.

Tim gasped. Ridge grinned with yellow teeth. “You’re still just a little one, aren’t you? What, fourteen, maybe?”

Oh, hell. Tim wanted Bruce. He wanted Bruce so bad. He wanted his dad to come and get this man away from him and take Tim back to where it was safe, and maybe watch a movie and share some popcorn.

“You’re a quiet one, huh? That means you like it. Let’s see if this gets you to make some noise…”

One of the first things Batman had taught Tim was to always, always watch both hands. If you only have eyes on one hand, the other could be reaching for a weapon or undoing cuffs.

Tim had forgotten that rule.

Ridge’s other hand emerged from below Tim’s line of sight, and Tim was only frozen as he watched two fingers tuck beneath his leather belt, grazing the skin where his treasure trail started. When Ridge felt coarse hair, his eyes glimmered.

“You haven't started shaving yet, huh?”

Tim’s lip trembled. I’m gonna throw up .

“What the hell are you doing?”

Ridge’s hands were off him in seconds, moving with faster reflexes than Tim had expected. Once they were gone, the air filled Tim’s lungs again and his feet found their traction, taking him backward and straight into a column.

Before them stood Bruce, his eyes blacker and stormier than Tim had seen in years, looking taller and broader than Dick and Jason combined.

Tim shrank back into the column. Was this the part where Bruce finally disowned him?

It wasn’t very becoming of a Wayne (or a Drake!) to stand there and let themselves be groped.

Ridge started to laugh, a shaky, watery thing, and with trembling hands he reached forward to fix Tim’s lapels. The buttons on his shirt had come unfastened when Ridge had thrust his fingers beneath them, and he tried to get one through the loop.

“Brucie! Mr. Wayne!” he sputtered. “This is just a silly misunder—”

Bruce grabbed Ridge’s wrist. Tim heard something crack.

“Do not touch my child.” His voice was low and full of gravel, dark as Gotham’s streets at midnight and deeper than the lowest chime on Martha Wayne’s Grandfather Clock.

Ridge’s eyes began to water as Bruce squeezed . “This is a misunderstanding!” he insisted. “Timmy here, he had spilled champagne— how was I supposed to know he was your—”

“It doesn’t matter whose child he is !” Bruce snapped. He wasn’t even trying to lower his voice. Cameras began to focus on them, their flashes bright and hot, and Tim shrank back even further. “He is a kid . He is my kid, and he is sixteen years old. I don’t care if he spilled a whole damn bottle of champagne on himself, you do not stick your hands beneath his belt !”

Tim felt a hand on his shoulder. When he looked, Dick was wrapping an arm around him, pulling him into his chest and turning him away from the camera lights. “C’mon, baby bird,” he murmured. “Are you okay?”

Ridge tried to stutter something else about helping , reaching towards Tim’s sleeve. “Come on, Timmy, tell Brucie—”

Tim cringed into Dick’s chest further even as his brother pulled him further away. He heard something snap and suddenly Ridge was howling. Outside, blue and red lights started flashing as a siren wailed.

“Gotham PD, always late.” Oh, Jason was there. He stood on Dick’s other side, shielding Tim from the civilians who’d started recording on their phones. His huge, calloused hand wrapped around Tim’s upper arm and he started to pull. “We gotta get out of here,” he said. “I already got Dami. Let’s go.”

Tim found his voice. “But— but, Bruce—”

“He’s gotta talk to the cops. We’re going, baby bird.”

Dick pushed and Jason pulled as they dragged Tim out of the ballroom, meeting a wide-eyed Damian in the hall. He snapped to rigid attention once he saw them.

“Has Drake been compromised?” he asked gravely.

“Uh huh, yeah.” Jason gritted his teeth. “Compromised. Let’s go, guys.”

Tim let himself be pushed. “I need to shower,” he croaked.

“We’re going upstairs, baby bird,” Dick promised. “You can shower when we get there. We’ll get lots of blankets and watch a movie, okay? Do you want some water?”

Tim’s brain wasn’t working right. He could barely understand what his brother was saying. He swallowed around a dry throat. “I need to shower,” he said again.

Jason’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

Upstairs, Dick herded Tim into the bathroom and Damian found a pair of sweats and one of Bruce’s old hoodies, which he left on the toilet seat.

When they had gone, Tim locked the door.

⧫

Dick

An hour later when Bruce came upstairs, Tim was still in the shower. Dick was sure the water was ice cold by now, even with the hefty supply of hot water in the manor’s water heaters. Or maybe he was just letting the water run while he sat in the bottom of the tub.

Dick had done that, after Catalina.

Bruce’s footsteps were quiet, but he couldn’t quite mask the fury on his face when he walked into everyone’s favorite sitting room. He dragged his eyes around the area, settling his gaze on three out of four of his children.

“Where’s Tim?”

His voice was jagged. Dick bit his lip so hard it bled.

“He’s in the shower,” Dick said. “He’s been in there a while.”

“Good. That’s good.” Bruce closed the door behind himself but stayed on the outskirts of the room.

The sounds of the party downstairs had long died, most party-goers scared off by the sirens, so only silence filled the air. Even Alfred, sitting silently in the overstuffed arm chair, made no sound as he folded and refolded Tim’s suit from the gala, pressing wrinkles from the lapels of the jacket. Dick could barely look at it.

When Bruce finally stepped inside, Dick noticed the way Damian curled back into the couch, practically falling into the crevices. He couldn’t look Bruce in the eye, even as his father kneeled on the floor before him.

Dick glanced at Jason, who was glaring at the floor. He looked condemned. Guilty.

“Damian,” Bruce said softly, and Dick looked away from Jason.

Damian chanced a look at him before bowing his head in shame, unable to keep eye-contact. “Father,” he murmured back.

Bruce touched his cheek, brushing hair off his face. “Are you hurt?”

Damian’s clicky swallow was audible in the silence of the room. “I came into no contact with Arthur Ridge,” he said, his voice mechanical, like a report. Then, as if an afterthought, he added, “I am unharmed.”

Bruce kept a hand on his son’s cheek. “Do you know how Tim came in contact with him?”

“I do.” Damian’s voice broke. Dick winced.

“How?” Bruce asked.

Damian’s voice shook and he kept clearing his throat as if to clean the shakiness away. For all his bark and all his bite, he seemed so uncertain. “It was no one’s fault but my own,” he said.

Jason’s hands tightened into fists. Dick watched blood run down his fingers from his nails digging into his palms and resisted the urge to hold onto them.

Bruce thumbed beneath Damian’s eye. “It was Arthur Ridge’s fault,” he corrected.

“Yet it was I who insisted Drake cross the floor first and alone!” Damian pushed Bruce’s hand off and curled himself up tighter like a defensive porcupine ready to strike. “The costume was my idea, as were the details of our attire!”

“Damian—”

“I should have stopped him, Father, but he insisted upon attending—”

“ Damian .” Bruce didn’t touch his youngest, but his hands hovered above him like he wanted to. “Damian. Sweetheart.”

Oh, nicknames. Bruce was really rattled.

“I’m not blaming anyone. I was just asking for the story.” Before Damian could speak again, Bruce added, “But I think I already got the gist. Thank you.”

“If you’re blaming anyone, it should be me .” Jason stood. His eyes were green around the edges. “I saw them in their waiter disguises and I let them walk back alone. I should have gone with them.”

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. That would explain the crippling guilt on Jason’s face.

Bruce stared at his second oldest, his jaw tight but his eyes still soft. He was clearly battling everything out in his head, his hands twitching in midair above Damian.

Jason glared at the floor. Bruce stood.

“Explain it to me, Jaylad,” he said slowly. “Exactly what happened.”

Jason scowled. Dick fought the urge to hold onto his little brother’s hands so he’d stop making himself bleed.

“I saw ‘em fucking around near the research booths and I told ‘em to get the hell back upstairs. No funny business, no detours. I didn’t tell anybody ‘cause I didn’t want ‘em to get grounded for the rest of their lives.” Jason gnawed on his lower lip, then scoffed at himself. “Guess I should’ve.”

Bruce raked his hands through his still slicked-back hair, exaggerating the grey at his temples. He looked tired. He didn't look mad. After a few deep breaths, he made his way over to Jason, setting a hand on his suit-clad shoulder. He squeezed, waiting until his son looked up at him before he spoke.

“That’s not your fault either, Jason,” he said finally. “You could have walked them upstairs, you’re right about that.”

Jason cracked his mouth open, but Bruce steamrolled over him.

“But by that logic, I should have made sure the staff was looking out for them, or told Alfred to make sure they didn’t leave his sight. I did neither of those things. Some of it’s my fault, too.”

“How were you s’posed to know they’d break into the party?” Jason muttered. Despite his gruffness, he leaned his chin onto the back of Bruce’s hand, scowling bitterly at the ground. “It’s not like they told you.”

“But I know both of them pretty well,” Bruce said. “I should’ve guessed.”

A heavier silence weighed down the room. Dick slumped back into the sofa he was leaning against, resisting the urge to bury his face in his knees. Distantly, he noted that the shower was still running, and hoped Tim would remember to dry his hair completely when he got out. No spleen meant more infections, and Dick wasn’t sure his little brother could handle getting sick right now.

He glanced out the window. It had started to snow.

⧫

Bruce

After a while of letting Jason use his hand as a pillow, Bruce finally pulled himself away with a last pat to his son’s shoulder. “I’m going to check on Tim,” he said quietly. “Dick, can you get something for him to drink? Something with electrolytes. Something to eat, too.”

Dick sprang up, always eager to help. Bruce knew having a task to complete would put his mind a little more at rest, too.

“On it,” he said. Before he left the room, he glanced over at Damian, who was still scrunched up in a ball, still dressed in his wrinkled suit. His eyes softened and he held out a hand. “Hey, Dami, let’s go get changed, bud.”

Ever the soldier, Damian stood methodically. Uncharacteristically, he slid his hand into Dick’s and let himself be led further into the manor.

Bruce didn’t smile, but it was a close thing. He had bigger things to focus on.

The shower was still running when he knocked gently on the bathroom door, the other hand in his pocket, fiddling with lint in the seam. He answered with silence, save for the shhhhhh sound of water hitting the tiled tub.

He knocked again. This time, Tim answered, voice muffled through the shower and the door.

“I’m fine , Dick.”

“It’s Bruce,” Bruce said, keeping his voice low and calm. Like he had with Dick after Catalina and Jason when he’d first moved in. “How are you doing?”

Tim took his time with answering. “I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you turn the water off? I know it’s cold.”

“I like the noise.”

Well. Couldn’t argue with that.

Bruce didn’t try the bathroom door handle, knowing it would be locked, but he had to strongly resist the urge. His child was in there, and he was hurting. He wanted to help. “I need to look at you, Tim,” he said. “I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Tim’s voice cracked. “I’m fine , B.”

“Then let me check on you.” Bruce breathed in slowly through his nose. “If you want, you can go straight to your room after. But… if you’re interested, your brothers want to watch a movie.”

A pause. The water still ran. Then, “What movie?”

Bruce’s lips twitched. Bingo. “Inception,” he said. He wasn’t sure if that was Dick’s actual choice, but it was one of Tim’s favorites.

Inside the bathroom, the water trickled to a stop. The shower curtain pulled back, feet hit the bath mat, and fabric shuffled, then the door unlocked. Bruce took the invitation for what it was and opened the door, stepping inside and closing it behind him quietly, sure Tim would want privacy.

When he saw his son, something in his chest shrivelled. Tim was dressed, Bruce’s old university hoodie hanging off him like a dress, the sweatpants rolled up around his waist. His face was white from the half-frozen shower water and he was trembling, but Bruce couldn’t tell if it was from residual fear or cold.

His poor kid.

“Hey,” Bruce said. “How are you doing?”

Tim considered, then shrugged. “‘M cold.”

“I bet.” Bruce wondered if it would be triggering to reach out and touch him, decided it might be, and kept his arms firmly by his sides. “Are you hurt?”

Tim shook his head, wet hair slapping his temples. “No. He barely touched me.”

Bruce remembered the thick fingers worming beneath his son’s shirt, thought of the gnarled hand reaching beneath his belt, and bit back a snarl. “I’m not sure “barely” is the right word here.”

“It is,” Tim said, his tone like steel.

Bruce gritted his teeth. Was this denial? Was Tim in denial? Was this his mind’s way of making everything okay, and if so, should Bruce go along with it, or correct it?

With Dick and Jason, both boys had known exactly what had happened and there had been very little room for interpretation. Neither of them had struggled with the uncertainty of it all.

Hell. Being a father was hard.

“Tim,” Bruce said, consciously keeping his tone gentle. “Kiddo. I—”

Apparently, that was all it took.

In a flurry of movement, Tim buried his face in his hands and burst into tears, his shoulders heaving. His entire body shook with the force of his sobs, his throat working desperately, his thin chest pumping as he completely fell apart.

Bruce was in front of him in a moment, pulling his child into his chest, firmly rubbing his back. Tim’s arms wrapped around him and his fingers interlocked behind Bruce’s back. He’d never been good at murmuring comforting nonsense, not like Dick was, so he just pressed his chin to the top of Tim’s head and whispered, “I’ve got you. I have you.”

After a few moments of very hard crying, Tim choked out, “He didn’t even hurt me.” Reading between the lines was easy; I’ve been hurt worse, so why is this pain so bad?

Bruce ducked his head down even further. “That doesn’t matter. He still touched you.”

“But it barely hurt ,” Tim insisted. “It was just… just…”

“Violating,” Bruce finished. “And disgusting. And humiliating.”

Tim sobbed again, worming his way further into Bruce’s arms. “Yeah. All of that.”

They remained in that embrace in the bathroom for at least ten minutes in silence. Eventually, Bruce's arms began to ache from the tightness of his squeeze, and Tim started to feel as heavy as an anvil. Despite the growing discomfort, Bruce's resolve only strengthened; he wouldn't be the first to break a hug from his child ( any of his children), the day he did that would be the day he gave up the cowl. It would signify a defeat far greater than any supervillain could inflict, a surrender of the very essence of his responsibility and commitment. This hug, simple as it was, was more than just a physical connection; it was a lifeline. Tim’s lifeline.

Eventually, the moment grew grayer at the edges. He felt Tim's trembling ease, the stiff muscles in his body gradually relaxing, and that subtle shift was all the confirmation Bruce needed to slightly loosen his grip. At his relinquishment, Tim stepped back.

He wiped his face with a too-loose sleeve and sniffled, eyeing the way his tears and snot had stained Bruce’s shirt.

“Sorry,” he croaked.

Bruce scoffed. “I have about fifteen of this exact suit, Tim. Don’t even think about it.”

“Fifteen Hermes suits?”

“In every color,” Bruce swore gravely. Then he snorted. “You act as if I do my own shopping.”

“I know you don’t.” Tim’s voice was still scratchy from crying, but his tone was light. “You look way too put together for that.”

Bruce grinned. It mostly sounded like his kid was back to his normal self, but he would bet there would be a few rounds of nightmares before Tim was completely past the experience. If he ever got past it. Even if it took a while, Bruce would be there with him every step of the way to recovery. “Twerp,” he said fondly, squeezing Tim’s shoulder again. “You ready for a movie?”

Tim nodded vigorously. “ Very . Inception, right?”

“If that’s what you want,” Bruce agreed.

Tim turned to the mirror before they left the bathroom, poking at his tear-stained face. His cheeks were puffy from crying and his nose was all red, almost like he’d been feverish. When he turned to Bruce, his forehead was wrinkled.

“Do I look like I’ve been crying?” he asked nervously.

“No,” Bruce lied confidently. Everyone, save for Damian on occasion, knew better to point out that kind of thing.

Jason

When Bruce finally came back, the baby bird was tucked into his side with a red, swollen face, clearly having been crying. His clothes were ten sizes too big and he was still stuffy, sniffing hard every few seconds, but he didn’t look half as traumatized as he had when he’d first stepped out of the gala.

For that, Jason was relieved.

He still felt bitterly guilty about the whole thing. He should have told Bruce. Should have escorted them upstairs. He could have prevented this.

“Baby bird!” Dick cooed the second he saw them. He opened his arms wide and Tim didn’t hesitate before burrowing into them, resting his pink face on his big brother’s shoulder. Beside them, Damian crossed his arms and scowled, but he didn’t snap at Tim to get away from him like he usually would.

Jason gnawed on the inside of his cheek. He felt a little green around the edges. Should he excuse himself?

Bruce, still in his suit, sat on the couch right next to Jason. He started taking off his jacket and unfastening his button-up, keeping his eyes down the entire time. “You did fine, Jaylad,” he said quietly, his voice so low the rest of the family couldn’t hear as they argued over movie selections. “Tim is fine. He isn’t upset with you in the least.”

Jason started to pick at the seam of the couch, plucking at a loose thread. “He’s lucky he wasn’t hurt,” he muttered.

“He is lucky,” Bruce agreed. He stripped off his outer layers, leaving him in his undershirt and slacks. “And we’re leaving it at that. No blame, other than at Ridge.”

Jason inhaled slowly. He worked the thread free and broke it between his fingers, enjoying the satisfying snap . It grounded him. “Is he in prison yet?”

“He’s in holding for now. Luckily, I have the footage from tonight on the security cameras in the gala hall, so GPD has probable cause to search his home and computer.” Bruce gritted his teeth. “I’m sure they’ll find plenty of evidence to lock him up for life.”

Jason slumped, relieved. “Thank God,” he muttered. Then, “And it’s a ballroom , Bruce. What the hell is a gala hall?”

His lips curving up just enough to be a smile, Bruce nodded. He was still tense and his jaw was tight, but his tone was soft. “Right, sorry. Ready for the movie?”

Jason glanced at the flat-screen. The intro to Inception was playing, the music beginning to barely swell. Damian and Tim’s eyes were focused intensely on the TV, but Dick was looking over at Jason and Bruce, brows drawn together.

Everything okay? He mouthed.

Jason nodded. It was now. He settled down into the cushions, knowing Bruce’s arm was draped across the sofa behind his shoulders and not saying anything. So what if he wanted to be close to his dad? He was allowed .

They all were.

⧫

“We’re setting rules about galas. If anyone is even slightly uncomfortable, or if someone is talking to you too close, or touching you too much, hit the button on your watches. I’ll be there.”

“Bruce, that happens literally so rarely. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Shut up, Drake, you have no room to speak!”

“And you’re still grounded, by the way. Until you’re thirty-five and I’m dead.”

“What?!”

“I literally just got groped, was that not punishment enough?”

A snort. A scoff. “Clearly it didn’t stop your smartass mouth, so no. Still grounded.”

…

“I’m emancipating myself again.”