Chapter Text
“Tim,” Bruce says. And Tim is immediately tempted to go the whole nine yards—stick his fingers in his ears, ‘lalalala’, ‘I can’t hear you’—the works. Anything to avoid what he’ll say next—because Tim knows what’s coming.
Unfortunately, Tim is a mature seventeen-year-old, and 'lalala' is slightly out of range. Instead, he just adjusts his earbuds, pretending like the volume is turned up too high to hear Bruce’s put-upon sigh. Pretending like it's too high to hear what's sure to come next.
“Tim,” Bruce tries again. Relentless, as always. “I know you heard me, and I know you don’t want to help. But that doesn’t change the fact that Damian needs a ride—that I need you to give Damian a ride.”
This time Tim actually does turn up the volume, blasting his music and attempting to drown out Bruce’s voice. Except then something tugs the left earbud free, ruining Tim’s efforts spectacularly.
“Don’t ignore me,” Bruce says. He sounds more tired than irritated.
Tim mumbles, “Sorry."
Bruce drops the earbud and, as a compromise, Tim kills the music, plucks the second earbud free. He wraps the wire into a jumbled mess and whirls on his breakfast bar stool, pointing his knees toward Bruce.
“Well?” Bruce says, content with Tim's undivided attention.
“What?”
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Damian.”
Tim plays dumb, hoping, praying. “What about him?"
“Will you go get him or not?"
And the short, easy answer would be a resolute no. Tim doesn’t want to go pick Damian up. He doesn’t want to spend time confined in a car with Damian insulting him and wiggling around and being a general nuisance. He doesn’t care about Bruce’s meeting—why should Tim have to go get the kid?
But the long answer is…Tim can’t exactly say the easy answer. He can’t just leave Damian to find his own way home—while Tim is perfectly certain Damian would manage it, Bruce Wayne’s twelve-year-old son trekking alone through Gotham City would raise some eyebrows. Plus, Bruce has a thing about treating Damian like a normal kid as much as possible—even if it means giving him rides home from school.
Tim sighs. “Why can’t Dick do it?”
“In France.”
“He can Zeta?”
Bruce pins him with a ‘really’ look and Tim just rubs a hand over his face, pushing on his eyes like he can squeeze out the perpetual itch. He probably just succeeds in making them redder.
“What about Jason?”
“Tim.”
“Alfred?” Tim suggests, a tad desperate.
Bruce shakes his head. “He’ll be making dinner.” He pauses to glance at his watch in a way that is clearly staged. He sighs. “I really need to run—can you please not make this difficult? I just need you to pick up your brother and bring him home. Am I really asking for too much?”
“Yes,” Tim says. “But fine. Pretty sure I shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery. But fine.”
“Thank you,” Bruce says, reaching out with a hair-ruffle Tim half-heartedly tries to dodge. He doesn’t succeed. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yeah okay,” Tim mumbles as Bruce leaves the room, rushing to gather the last of his paperwork and set off for Wayne Enterprises.
Meanwhile, Tim stares down at his phone blankly. What did Bruce get me into?
The answer? Nothing good.