Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The tepid air of the pharmacy is the furthest thing from comfortable. Sweat clings to Tim’s skin. He feels flushed and jittery with it, like he needs to fling himself into a syringe of muscle relaxants to continue as a normal, functioning member of society. 

Leslie had warned him about this. Had warned him to pack backup after backup bottle of antibiotics anytime he left Gotham. Tim had tried to listen, really he had.

But the arms dealers he had left to investigate were dumber than usual and when Tim was discovered on one of their illegal aircrafts, the pilot had jumped out of the plane after destroying the control board. Without a parachute. Sending the plane crashing down. Right into the Atlantic Ocean.

One emergency parachute into cold, unforgiving waters later, Tim had to drop half of his gear into the water, least he get dragged down with it. It made him feel suitably guilty, as the Martha Wayne Foundation had just run a charity for cleaning the ocean of litter. Tim is supposed to be a philanthropist as well as a vigilante. He’s pretty sure actual philanthropists don’t dump gear with chemicals toxic for wildlife in the ocean. 

After that, Tim sent an S.O.S via his single beacon (before the damn ocean killed it) and treaded water for twenty-seven minutes before the Coast Guard rescued him. All had been well for the trip back to shore, until they had tried to ID Tim and Tim— not wearing his cowl or cape but still in the slick bodysuit for under the armor— understandably panicked. And by ‘panicked’, Tim means he nerve-strikes close to ten US military personnel, completely scrubbed their systems of any trace of him, and got the hell out of there. It only occurred to him after he’s five miles away from their base that he should have contacted Oracle. Tim’s a little stupid like that.

The main point of the entirety of this story and the reason that Tim is slowly dying in a pharmacy is that Tim lost his utility belt in the water. While a practical idea at the time, what with the extended period of attempting to keep his head above water, it ultimately resulted in Tim losing his extra strength antibiotics that Leslie had specially tailored to Tim. Therefore, Tim went a day without a dose, a day in which he was dumped into the ocean in the middle of January. 

His immune system is thoroughly displeased with him at the moment. 

Luckily, Tim has an emergency pocket inside his bodysuit stuffed with extra cash. Just not medicine. Or a waterproof beacon to call for help. Tim is going to have to fix that when he gets back to Gotham. Double lucky, Tim is probably only a few towns over from Gotham. So when he can call for help, it’ll take very little time to retrieve him.

And while he could ask a random passerby for a phone or locate a pay phone of some sort, Tim really, really needs some antibiotics before his injuries, such as the cut on his bicep, decide to catch sepsis. Or his fever rises anymore than it already has.

Thank Batman for CVS. 

Shivers rack his body as he shifts restlessly in line for the only medicine counter. With no one working the register, Tim is forced to stand behind a small line of people as he is almost literally dying. Hooray.

As the man in the front moves away, Tim is one person away from buying his meds and getting the hell out of this town.

The woman in front of him wearily slides her prescription across the counter. Which, fair, it is two am.

When she goes to pay, cash shaking in her hand as she hands it over, the pharmacist shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the price of this particular product has risen.”

“What?” the woman croaks. “It… it was this price last month.”

The pharmacist grimaces. “Unfortunately, do to the demand for this product, the price has been forced to rise.”

“The demand—!” The woman inhales sharply, fists clenching. “It’s insulin. Some people need insulin to survive.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” The pharmacist’s voice, though sympathetic, is growing clipped. “But the price has risen and to purchase this product, you need to pay the full price.”

“I don’t have the money.” The woman whispers, glancing back at Tim quickly. Like she’s ashamed to say it in front of Tim, who’s half dressed and shivering like a wet kitten. “Is there any other way I can pay for it?”

“Do you have a membership or health insurance to offer?”

The woman laughs shortly. “No.”

“Then I’m afraid there is no other way to pay.” The pharmacist looks genuinely sad to tell her so, but he waves his hand at her dismissively anyway. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if you could move so that the next customer may pay…”

“Please,” the woman says, even quieter. “Please. It’s not for me. It’s for my daughter. I don’t have any more money, but I can pay you back. She… she needs this.”

Before the pharmacist can reply, Tim pipes up.

“How much do you need?”

He leaves through his slightly soggy money as he asks. He has forty dollars in twenties (which is a shitty amount, Tim should really be better than this), and the antibiotics are thirty. Depending on how much money she needs, Tim might still be able to purchase what he needs.

The woman whips around, her eyes darting about Tim’s face. She wants to reject his offer, he can tell. But it’s not for her, so she can’t do it. 

“Ten dollars,” she murmurs. “It’s… I need ten more dollars.”

Tim checks the price of the box in his hand. Thirty-one eighty-five.

Fuck it. Tim did not patrol with the goddamn Clench just to be a pussy over a little fever and possible sepsis. He’s Red Robin, he can take it.

Sighing, he slaps all his money on the counter and tosses the box back onto a nearby shelf.

Ignoring the woman’s protests, he shoots her his best smile. It’s bedraggled and strained, possibly made more horrid by Tim’s wet hair, flushed cheeks, and quivering body.

“Can I borrow your phone for a sec?”

_____

Privately, Tim thinks that Dick must have grown wings to arrive as quickly as he did. The woman, Jeanette, stayed with him inside the CVS for the entire twenty minute wait, thanking him profusely in five minute intervals. She dried him off with cheap bathroom paper towels and bundled him in her threadbare jacket and scarf despite his protests. She set up vigil at his side until Dick showed up in one of Bruce’s expensive sports cars and charged through the automatic doors of the rundown CVS like a knight in shining armor. Tim is a little delirious. 

“Jesus Christ, Tim, you’re freezing!” Dick frets, his hands warm where they touch his neck and cheek. “Thank you Miss…?“

“Lawrence.” Jeanette offers. 

“Miss Lawrence. Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing,” Jeanette replies, uncomfortable. Like she didn’t fuss over Tim and try to stuff the remaining twenty nine dollars and ninety eight cents in Tim’s hands, all while ignoring the disapproving eyes of the pharmacist. “Really. Your brother helped me more than I helped him.”

Dick smiles at her. “That sounds like Tim.”

Now, Tim may be at least half unconscious now that Dick is here to handle his problems, but he’s still lucid enough to slip the money in the coat he hands back to Jeanette along with the scarf. Before he’s even finished Dick is draping his own wonderfully thick coat around him. Along with a hat, gloves, and a scarf. 

After sleepily waving goodbye to Jeanette, Tim leans all his weight into his older brother.

“I’m so glad you like picking up random numbers,” Tim mutters into Dick’s shoulder.

Dick laughs and pulls up more of Tim’s weight as he shuffles him to the passenger seat. “And now you’ve reaffirmed my paranoia enough to where I’m never going to stop. Congratulations, Tim, now my voice mail is going to be full of warnings about my car’s extended warranty.”

“Sorry,” Tim offers, dropping into the car seat as the door slams. The car is still on and blasting sweet, sweet heat.

It takes literal seconds for Dick to jog around the car to hop in the driver’s side seat.

“It’s no problem Timmy. We were all worried when you went dark.”

“Fucking suicidal pilot.” Tim slurs, being lulled to sleep by Dick’s driving and the blessed heat. “Water’s just as bad as concrete from that height.”

Tim falls asleep to Dick laughing. 

_____

Tim eyes to shelves of Leslie’s little clinic, surveying in a way he never has before. His legs swing on the bed as the door clicks with Leslie’s entry into the room.

“Hey Leslie. How much does insulin cost?”

Leslie looks up from her bustling. She’s not angry (Tim can’t think of any time she’s ever been angry with him), but she is harried and a little frustrated. She’s out of his specific antibiotics, so she’s browsing through her catalog for another fit.

“The US average is around three hundred sixty dollars for a month of it.” Leslie frowns distractedly. “Price is rising again though.”

“How bad is it?”

Leslie looks up. Her eyes are much more wrinkled and tired than Tim remembers them being. 

“Well, it’s manageable if you have good health insurance. But if you’re paying out of pocket, it becomes much worse over time. Especially if you have a lot of other things to pay for.”

Tim knows about money, no matter what Steph said while teasing him when they were younger. Drake Industries went bankrupt when Tim was fourteen and his dad was still recovering from his coma. He, his dad, and Dana moved into a townhouse that was still reasonably upper middle class in nature, but to Tim, it was almost the end of the world. He whined for ages about loosing the stuff he had, like his car and the maid service. Shit, he didn’t even know how to do laundry before Dick shook him out of his self pity. 

But, that’s the kicker. Tim knows money. Tim knows that things cost this and that much, Tim knows that some things are unaffordable for certain people, Tim knows what it’s like to fret over the endless zeroes on the medical bills his parents get. Tim knows.

But he never did anything about it. The Foundation has an off branch called the Thomas Wayne Medical Program that deals in affordable medical treatment, and Leslie and her clinic work hard to give everyone affordable treatment. 

But Tim didn’t do anything about it.

Despite Tim’s minor spiral, he Leslie’s voice rings clear to him. It does not gentle. It is as stern and clear as it has always been. “The majority of medicine is overpriced in Gotham, as producing companies figured out that they could sell it higher because of the inherent risk in living in this city. Your father tries to help, but there’s really only so much charity can do with the level of accessibility.

Leslie laughs. “Hell, drugs are easier to get in this godforsaken city than medicine is.” Leslie flicks her paper. “Now, for your medicine while your prescription is shipping, I think that…”

Tim nods along, the gears of his mind turning and turning.

_____

Jeanette Lawrence is a divorced mother of one living in a small, no-name town. She is currently employed as a waitress at a local hotspot. Her former husband does not pay child support as he is unemployed. 

However, before her divorce, Jeanette was a leading secretary for a LexCorp building before filing for maternity leave, not getting it, and quitting. Though it’s not specifically written down in Tim’s growing file, he suspects that may be one of the reasons for divorce. 

Really LexCorp? No more than two month maternity leave? Tim makes a mental note to email Lucius about Wayne Enterprises maternity leave policies. (Bruce had discreetly taken back his status as majority share holder a year ago, taking a massive burden off Tim’s shoulders in doing so, but Tim likes Lucius and still works closely with him as the head of the Neon Knights.)

Jeanette was an awesome secretary too, but the looks of it. 

Brow furrowing, Tim tries to figure out the least creepy way to go about… helping 

His lovely, lovely brain child, the Neon Knights is primarily an outreach program for at risk teens in Gotham. It’s picked up major traction with the locals, and that was after Tim tracked down Jason to interrogate him for advice. They have housed and helped millions in the two years they’ve been active. 

Jeanette’s daughter, Andrea, is eleven years old and not… specifically at risk. On paper, her mother is the perfect provider for her. To insert any kind of ‘help’ into that particular situation would be to harm a good thing.

Harm has never been one of Tim’s favorite activities. 

So, his most used avenue for help is out. Why hasn’t Tim ever put too much thought into the other aspects of health in the world? Why just the teen violence?

Aside from his beautiful baby being the direct result of Tim looking to lower crime rates and push the youth away from lives as career henchmen?

Well, Tim made the Neon Knights international easily enough. Who’s to say he can’t start a nationwide medicinal program?

If Tim is correct, they are at one million, nine hundred forty seven thousand, eight hundred sixty two filed registrants. The sparse few on the Neon Knight’s public relations team had asked for an event in honor of such an occasion, just as they had when they had reached a million. Tim had protested, saying it sounded tawdry, pretentious, and really fucking rude.

Now, all it sounds like is an opportunity.

Tapping his finger in an easy staccato, Tim picks up his laptop and phone.

“Hey, Babs,” Tim says, already typing out his formal proposal. “No, no, I’m fine, no more ocean crashes here. Yeah, I know I should have called. Yeah, fever has completely subsided, but B says to wait a little longer. Sorry, not a personal call. I’m taking around a week off. No, no, I’m fine, I just told you that.” Tim smiles, fingers blurring over his keyboard. “Got a new personal project. Gotta call B to let him know. I know, I know. I’ll call more often. Bye!”

Opening up PowerPoint, Tim prepares himself for the interrogations he’s about to be on the receiving end of. From both Bruce and Tam.

_____

“Alright, rise and shine everyone,” Tim yells through the boardroom. Cute, curious little eyes blink back at him.

In creating his own independent branch of Wayne Enterprises, Tim has complete autonomy over his staff, board, and a variety of other things. His only real bosses are Lucius, Bruce, and Tiffany, much to the rest of the Board of Directors ire. Tim can feasibly do whatever the hell he wants as long as he provides ample justification to Tiffany, sometimes not even that. Tiffany is super cool about most of the things Tim wants to do. 

One of the first things he set out to do was craft his very own board. (The second was a well-paid internship program for teenagers and adults alike.) This resulted in a mishmash of ages and life experience, with the oldest of the group being fifty-seven and the youngest, other than Tim himself, twenty-three. Tim trusts each and every one of them with the express jobs he gives them, and therefore the life of his child. They sit primly before him, Tiffany among them, as this is an important meeting to facilitate whether this will be promoted to an actual WE Board Meeting.

“Listen up, guys, because I’m about to crack open a whole new womb full of brain baby.” Tim says, slapping the projector screen with his left hand. He’d been so excited he stayed up all night perfecting his charts. “Please hold questions until the end.

“As you know, the Neon Knights was created as an international teen outreach program, made to prevent at-risk teenagers from turning to crime by providing youth shelters and community activities for youth gangs. This then morphed to helping teens with employment opportunities and better lives, which then morphed into a much more inclusive age group for anyone in need of better employment. 

“So, I’m thinking, why don’t we attack the next thing as we approach the two million mark? Food and necessities are already nationally provided by the Martha Wayne Foundation, one of our biggest supporters, so there’s no need to touch on that. What I’m thinking is,” Tim clicks to the first slide in his slide show, showing the current prices of life necessitating medication and the average employee health insurance, “medicine. Precious medicine is not a resource easily accessible to all, and we can fix that.

“The Neon Knights can reach out to those suffering the costs of crucial medicine and save more and more lives. Currently, illegal medicinal operations are strong all over New Jersey and the rest of the United States, so in doing this we will also foster a better life for even more people by cutting this market off.

Tim smiles. “With my opening done, I can now show you the best goddamn graphics you will ever see in your lives.”

Three hours later finds Tim bundled up inside a higher end cafe. Directly opposite to Tim, Tiffany delicately sips her coffee as Tim slurps his down with a fury unknown to most men. Raspberry vanilla lattes are a gift to mankind and Tim will not be convinced otherwise. Caffeine and sugar were meant to go together. 

“It’s a great idea, Tim,” Tiffany says warmly. “But when you present it to the Board, maybe don’t mention cracking open wombs?”

Beaming, Tim pushes aside his empty cup. “That means I do get to present it though, right? You liked it?”

Tiffany laughs. “I just said it’s great, Tim. God, the things you come up with.”

The waitress silently snatches up his empty cup and replaces it with the water Tim had requested after his coffee. Tim will have to tip her well.

“I don’t think affordable medicine is something I came up with, Tiffany. In fact, I believe some other countries are doing that on their own as we speak. That’s why this program is just national.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there.” Tiffany uncrosses her legs under the table, stretching them before standing. “The next Board meeting is at the end of the month. I can try to pencil you in, but I make no guarantees. Dad might help, though.”

“Thanks so much, Tiffany.” Tim stands as well. “I’ll see you then.”

Winking, Tiffany pays for both coffee’s despite Tim’s protests. Tim directly hands forty dollars to his waitress with additional money for a raspberry coffee cake to-go.

He has another, longer, much more seductive PowerPoint to make. No more holding back on the graphics. His cute little team’s virginal eyes couldn’t handle them, but the Board needs to be fucking blinded with how attractive his PowerPoint is. This needs to be a complete K.O. No mercy.

Maybe Tim should have gone for a Masters in graphic design instead of pestering Barbra. He’d have aced that course.

_____

Tim’s hands fall to his sides. Numb of all feeling. 

“What?”

Lucius sighs. February is in full force outside, so his office window is completely frosted over. It makes for a nice analogy to Tim’s internal organs.

“The Board vetoed your plan.” Lucius repeats. “Too much of a profit drain, they said.”

A profit drain. A fucking profit drain. People’s lives have always been a profit drain to them. 

“I would fight it myself, if I could,” Lucius says wearily. “It’s a brilliant idea, Tim. But something that widespread needs a company of WE’s standards backing it, and without it, not even the Neon Knights can implement it.”

“People are dying, Lucius,” Tim replies quietly. “They aren’t getting the medicine they need, the care they need, and some of them are turning to other sources laced with shit like ketamine to get them addicted. Drugs are easier to get than medicine.”

“Tim, I saw your graphics.” Lucius rubs his face. “Maybe if you compromise, cut back on some of the Neon Knights activities—”

“Never,” Tim shoots back immediately. “If you saw the graphics, you saw the numbers, Lucius. We’re helping so many people with what we have. So many.”

“Then I don’t know what else to tell you.” Lucius looks old, just as old as Leslie did when it was just the two of them in her clinic. Tim feels immediately guilty; Lucius is like an uncle to him. “I can throw my opinion in with the rest of them, and so can Tiffany, but they outnumber us. Even the more… charitable of the group voted against it.

“Then I’ll pitch it again,” Tim replies. “I’ll make it into a deal they can’t fucking resist. I’ll beat them over the heads with my logic until they bend to my will.”

Lucius smiles, but it’s just as tired as his eyes. “You’re welcome to try.”

_____

Ego crush is one of the most painful feelings Tim has ever experienced. 

At age nineteen, Tim has done a lot of things people over eighty haven’t. He’s saved the city, saved the state, saved the country, even saved the world a few odd times. He’d been to space, he’d saved a whole galaxy once with a goddamn baseball game. He’d created an international program, he trained with assassins, he’s taken out entire criminal and assassination organizations alike. 

Understandably, Tim had since come to the conclusion that there is nothing he can’t do if he pours his blood, sweat, effort, tears, and guts into it. 

So Tim did what he does best: obsess. He created so many PowerPoint slides, dug deep into his soul for the arguments different Board Directors would hurl at him, agonized over his words for countless sleepless nights.

Only for his proposal to be smacked back in his face.

Well, fine, Tim had thought. I’ll do better next time. 

As Tim was gearing up for his third presentation, he was smugly informed by a member of the Board, Joshua Limmel (Tim is coming for that motherfucker first if he ever snaps) that vetoed proposals can not be presented to the Board for reevaluation more than twice. Three strikes and Tim out of the game for the rest of his life.

So Tim does what he really didn’t want to do. He compromises. 

Not anything to do with his team or the Neon Knights, but he lops off a good chunk of his own damn salary and proposes the drop of a few intensely calculated R&D projects he had successfully pushed for in the past. He even offers up further supervision upon himself and his future projects.

In short, Tim nails himself to a stake for the Board to set aflame. Bait for a very specific type of prey.

In the distance, Tim could hear his parents writhing in their graves.

“This concludes my proposal,” Tim did not make eye contact with anyone in the room, but he stares them down all the same. “Please take all that I have offered into your consideration.”

“Thank you, Mr. Drake,” Lucius said, mouth set into an almost smile. “We will email you the results of the vote.”

As he packed, Tim nodded at both Lucius and a few Board members. He could practically smell the bloodlust emanating from a choice few of them. The fishing rod had been cast, and Tin had settled down to see if he caught a big one.

When the line was reeled in, on the hook was a damned perch. A common little fish that Tim almost threw back into the ocean just to spit in its face.

The Board decided to cut his pay, drop two R&D projects out of the four he offered, and supervise the implementation of a few community health centers for low income families that will be donated to by willing medication manufacturers, along with the Neon Knight’s involvement in it.

Not the chains upon chains of distribution that Tim had painstakingly drawn up. Not the all-inclusive easy access. Not the hiring of carefully vetted chemists and pharmaceutical scientists. Not even the product pricing Tim had presented.

No. The big bass Tim had cast for flipped off his bait (after taking a huge bite) just before it swam away. Leaving Tim with this disgusting perch. 

And Tim can’t even have a damn pity party about it because another damn crisis came up and Tim has to be Red Robin for that, not depressed, stupid Timothy Drake.

So yeah, ego crush fucking sucks,

_____

In the end, Tim cannot emotionally cope with his own failure, so he packs a bag for the weekend to stay at the manor.

Sadness requires sympathy and Alfred’s cooking. 

Dick is there for the weekend as well, and Dick always makes Tim feel better. 

“I am an absolute fucking failure,” Tim says the moment Dick comes downstairs to greet him. “Truly. Whomever saw it fit for my parents to reproduce has a goddamn problem, and they are second on my hit list when I finally snap.”

As Dick crosses the room to him, Tim can feel his eyes get all itchy and his face flush. Stupid reaction. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“Aww, Timmy,” Dick says, putting his arms around Tim in the exact way he likes best. “You’re not a failure, I promise.”

“You don’t even know what I did yet.” Tim’s voice is muffled by Dick’s shirt. 

“That’s how you know I’m right. Wanna sit down and talk about it?”

“No.”

Tim will physically need to rant about it later, but right now he doesn’t even want to think about it. 

“Kay. Then let’s go watch a movie.”

Tim sighs into Dick as he drags Tim to his favorite lounge room. Dick always knows just what to do. 

That night Alfred makes his favorites. It’s a mix and mash— as Tim has never been able to decide which food category he likes best— and was probably a pain in the ass to make. Tim cares deeply about Alfred, even if he refused to add the anchovies Tim had suggested, so now Tim has to fight Damian over the spinach salad.

Dick forces Tim to stay with him to finish their movie before going on patrol. Midway through, they have a bit of fun dropping in on an armed robbery, and wrap up the night with ease.

Tim actually sleeps six hours that night.

It’s amazing. Tim’s strategy of only visiting the manor when he’s distressed is a very well thought out one.

When he stumbles out of bed for breakfast, Bruce, Dick, Duke, and Damian are already sitting. Bruce has the morning paper in his hands because he’s an actual old man and isn’t paying any mind to Dick and Damian’s light chatter. Duke, his brother in arms in their crusade against mornings, is nearly face down in his plate. Good man, Duke.

Tim scoops up some scrambled eggs and slaps some bacon on his plate. He feels refreshed, revitalized. Maybe he’ll stay an extra day.

“Tim,” Bruce greets idly.

“Hey B,” Tim replies between bites.

“I heard about your proposal,” Bruce flips a page, oblivious to how Tim stiffens. “It’s probably not the exact result you wanted, but you did exceedingly well. Lucius had nothing but praise for how you conducted yourself.”

Tim feels frozen. Bruce thinks he high-balled the Board to manipulate them into giving him the result he wanted. And while Tim had thought about it, he ultimately decided that asking for more would get his plan permanently black listed. But Bruce thinks he set up a few shitty community centers on purpose. 

“I also heard that the Neon Knights—”

A dull thud sounds from under the table and Dick slithers back up from his drastic slump in his seat, smiling innocently, like he didn’t just leave a large bruise on Bruce’s shin. Bruce finally puts down the paper to see Tim, probably looking as though Bruce had just punted his puppy into the Gotham Harbor before throwing him in as well. 

“Oh,” Bruce says dumbly. “I didn’t think—”

“You know,” Tim cuts him off as he rises from his chair. “I think I’m going to pack up so I can head out early. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”

“Tim,” Bruce starts, but Dick shoves his hand in his face.

“Bye, Timmy! C’mere, let me hug you!”

Tim allows it, and nods politely to Damian as he does. Damian flips him off immediately. Fucking thirteen year olds, man.

Duke smiles weakly at him, and Tim pats his back as he walks by.

“Tim,” Bruce says again, shoving Dick’s hand off him. 

“It’s alright, Bruce.” Tim says before Bruce can awkwardly try to apologize. There’s almost nothing worse than that, especially since Tim has just disappointed Bruce. “I’m fine.”

He touches Bruce’s shoulder lightly before scurrying up the stairs into his room to repack his stuff. So much for another day. 

On the way out, Tim stops by Alfred, thanking him for the food.

“Anytime, dear boy,” Alfred’s smile wrinkles his eyes. “Truly.”

_____

“Alright guys,” Tim says to his board. “The Board of Assholes has decided to fuck over our plan after we brainstormed ideas for months. They have given us this on fire garbage can that we are going to work with if it is the last thing we do.”

A hand raises in the air.

“Yes, Maria!”

“Mr. Drake,” Maria begins crisply. “Do you have the exact plan as written?”

Tim grins. “Yes, I do. And I brought copies.”

Another hand raises. 

“Yes, John!”

“Yeah,” John says slowly. “So are we not going to be setting up a national chain?”

“No,” Tim says, “but we’re going to come up with a plan that’s almost half as good. Then we are going to implement it, no matter what.” Tim’s grin widens. “Viva la fucking revolución.”

Very few of his board do not pale. The ones that don’t still look uncomfortably disturbed.

This is why Tim calls them cute to their faces. They’re all so green.

_____

The community centers aren’t as bad as Tim made them out to be. There’s four of them in total, one in Gotham and the rest scattered in the surrounding towns. Instead of building individualized buildings, rooms in buildings owned by the Martha Wayne Foundation are used. 

Advertisement is undertaken by the Foundation’s PR team instead of Tim’s, but that’s alright because Tim’s PR team is for setting up the occasional interview and web post, as Tim had tactically refused any social media accounts and had instead created both a website and an app with Barbara’s help. Both come in seven different languages, have an audio function, and are user friendly. Bonding with Barbara is fun.

Medicine manufactories made sizable donations, likely to get on the good side of Wayne Enterprises, the number one leader in technological innovation and quality goods of the decade. Suck it, LexCorp.

It’s nowhere near the grand scheme Tim had dreamed up on his seventeenth extra sugar grape Zesti at four in the afternoon, going on three days of planning with the only breaks being sleeping, eating, and using the restroom. 

It’s not even a start. The Board had effectively shut down any more discussion of his plans and cut off Tim’s power in the company at the knees. It’ll take way too much schmoozing, lying, and blackmail to get back to the point he was, and Tim is not desperate enough to covet it. 

It’s barely even something. Companies will stop donating medicine when they realize WE has no interest in them beyond that. The system the Board devised is in no way sustainable and they damn well know it. 

It’s a fucking cul-de-sac of nothingness and hatred of Tim specifically.

Tim just needs to work with it as best as he can. 

It still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

So, the next step in the plan? Create an entirely new benefactor to properly do the work the world needs. 

Tim is still the legal owner of sixty-four percent of Drake Industries, bankrupt and dissolved or not. All he needs to do is raise that fucker like a goddamn phoenix and he’s ready to go. 

There are no company policies against an employee owning a bit of stock. Tim checked.

_____

The stirrings of the dead and gone Drake Industries are noted by no one else but Bruce. 

Bruce, upon noticing, calls Tim immediately.

“What’s up, B?” Tim asks, carefully considering which pop tart would taste best with peanut butter. He’s leaning towards frosted raspberry, but he can definitely see it being interesting if he goes with frosted blueberry instead. Decisions, decisions. 

“Tim,” Bruce says into the phone, slowly. Like he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. “You can’t just create an entire company to make a point.”

Jaw clenching with how harshly his teeth grind together, Tim very calmly does not loose his shit.

“Hello to you too, Bruce,” he growls into the phone. “I’m fine. And you?”

“Tim, please.”

No. If Bruce wants to accuse Tim of being a petty bitch, he can have hard proof of Tim being a petty bitch. Suck it, Bruce.

“Hey, Bruce.”

“Tim, we need to talk.”

“So weird to hear from you in the daytime, Bruce.”

“Tim, I swear.”

“Good morning, Bruce.”

“Tim.”

“Wow,” Tim deadpans, choosing blueberry if only because he’s kind of pissed now. “I must be going through a tunnel as I walk out of my pantry. You’re… chkkk… -eaking… ‘p.”

Bruce lets out a long, gusty sigh. “Hello, Tim.”

“Hi, Bruce!” Tim exclaims as he smears a dollop of peanut butter on all four pop tarts. “What can I do for you?”

“Don’t create another company. Please.”

“Well, no problem. Drake Industries is already a company.”

Bruce sighs again. There’s a shuffling noise.

“Tim?” 

“Lucius?” Tim says around his pop tart. (He was right, the flavor is very interesting.)

The bastard had brought in Lucius as backup. Lucius.

“Drake Industries is no longer a company, as the stocks have been sold and assets liquidized.” Lucius sounds a little amused. “What Bruce is trying to say is please don’t raise an entire company just for this.”

“What else am I supposed to do, Lucius?” Tim asks. “I tried the ethical way. I pitched and persuaded and compromised, and it got me jack shit. I was four seconds away from blackmail and threats, but pulled away with stunning self control. The energy has to go somewhere, and I feel as though it should go into revitalizing my parent’s company and continuing with a wee little pet project of mine.”

“The national organization, you mean.” Lucius is definitely amused. Point for Tim.

“National, smashional. I run an international program, how hard can it be?”

“Tim, you run that with explicit support from Wayne Enterprises— the leading international company of the decade— and Bruce Wayne, one of the richest men in the world.”

“Are you saying I can’t do it?” Tim asks flatly, hackles rising.

“No, I have no doubt you could. But in doing so, you will have the Board pushing for you to be black listed, the Neon Knights likely being dissolved, and your plan put on the back burner for several years while you gain enough assets to put it into motion. All while not having enough time for your… hobbies. And I don’t think you want any of that.”

All of a sudden, Tim feels like a toddler that’s being bargained away from the decision to stick a fork in the electrical socket. 

Lucius brings up entirely valid points. Tim was falling back onto his revived ego of ‘I do what I want’ and Tim knows that’s not the best way of doing things. It’s probably even the worst way of doing anything at all.

“You’re right,” Tim sighs, rubbing his eyes. All the goodwill and energy he built up at the manor is crashing down like an on fire fighter jet. God, he’s tired. “I’m sorry, I just… I just really wanted this plan to work and… I’m reacting stupid.” Tim’s eyes are getting itchy, and he puts down his pop tart to scrub at them. Fuck healthy emotionally responses, neither Bruce nor Lucius will hear Tim cry. “I’ll stop, I promise.”

“It’s okay, Tim,” Lucius says gently. “You’re not being stupid. And even if you were, you’re nineteen; you’re allowed to be stupid about the things you want to be stupid about.”

“Thanks, Lucius.”

“Of course, Tim.”

More shuffling. 

“Hey, don’t worry about it anymore, Bruce,” Tim says. “Lucius talked some sense into me. I’ll drop Drake Industries.”

“Tim.” Bruce says, his voice almost as gentle as Lucius’s. “I really think that you and I—”

“I’m going to get some sleep. Bye, Bruce.”

Another sigh. That makes three in less than ten minutes. Tim has really never felt more like a toddler. 

“Okay, Tim. I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Sure, Bruce,” Tim says. “I’ll try.”

He hangs up and stuffs his last pop tart into his mouth before heading off to bed. He’ll fix the stuff he was beginning to stir up when he wakes up.

God, Tim is so tired.

_____

The backup plan to the manor not saving Tim’s mood is to call Bart to call for an intervention.

Because no matter what Bruce thinks of Kon, Tim is definitely the one who gets Kon to try dumb shit and not the other way around. That’s what Bart is for.

Bart, like the true paragon of well-meaning shenanigans, calls Kon who calls Cassie who calls Tim (mostly to complain) and Tim ends up in San Francisco in shorts and a Superboy shirt. 

They screw around a bit at a random mall before booking it to Cassie’s apartment in Gateway City.

Kon and Bart immediately begin to beg Cassie for food, a request that she shoots down. With spite. 

“Don’t worry, guys,” Tim says, leaning his head against Cassie’s couch cushion. Bart sits above him, actually sitting on the couch and not on the floor, and starts to tug at Tim’s hair. “I’ll order pizza.”

“It better not be that disgrace you call pizza,” Kon says from where he’s sprawled next to Tim. His feet come to rest in Tim’s lap. “I want pineapple.”

“I want supreme,” Bart says.

“You guys are officially the worst friends.” Cassie groans, sitting next to Bart on the couch. “Just get pepperoni like everyone else.”

“All I’m hearing is four different pizza options. Which place?”

“Dominos.”

“Little Caesar’s.”

“Papa John’s.”

Tim points to Kon. “Papa John’s.”

Bart and Cassie groan.

If the pizza girl is surprised by the lack of party when she arrives, she doesn’t show it. Tim tips her well for carrying fifteen pizzas single handedly and ducks back into Cassie’s room. 

Bart blazes through seven before sedately eating his last one. Kon and Cassie both practically shove one down their throat before easing up the speed on their second and third. Tim watches, fascinated, as he nibbles at his singular pizza. He has two left over slices that Bart snatches up, even as he made a face at the artichoke hearts, onions, and Canadian bacon. 

“I think a pumpkin and pizza combination would taste interesting.” Tim says earnestly as his friends are finishing. “Like, pumpkin cubes on pizza or pepperoni on pumpkin pie.”

“Ewww!” They all scream simultaneously.

Bart tackles Tim to the ground. “Why! Why do you always ruin good food!”

Cassie picks up a pillow and begins repeatedly slapping Tim’s head with it. It kind of hurts. Every hit is punctuated with a word. 

“No. One. Cares. About. Your. Interesting. Flavors!” She screams.

Kon gags audibly. “Dude, huhhhgk, that’s so fucking gross. We tell you every damn time!”

Tim starts cackling and can’t really make himself stop. 

Man, he needed this.

Once his friends tire of heaping abuse onto him, Cassie gets out the nail polish. 

Bart wants lime green, Kon wants electric blue, Cassie wants bright yellow. They all turn to Tim with pleading eyes.

“Maybe I want my nails done this time,” Tim grumps, crossing his arms. “Maybe I don’t wanna do yours.”

“Please, please, please, please, pleeeeeease, Tim,” Bart begs. “You’re the only one who’s any good.”

Cassie nods. “Steady hands.”

“Plus, your nails are too short.”

Tim examines his very, very short nails. (He likes to keep them trimmed because the first time he lost his gloves as Robin, his fingernails cut viciously into his palms as he punched a crook.) Kon isn’t wrong. Besides, it’s not like he was actually going to say no. 

He starts with Bart’s and then Cassie’s and then Kon’s. Alphabetical order, just so none of them fight over who gets to go first. 

“So, Tim,” Bart says casually from where he’s doing Cassie’s hair. (He dried his nails by shaking his hands really fast.) “You only call for an intervention when you’re in crisis mode. What’s up?”

“Oh, you know,” Tim replies gustily, intently focused on Cassie’s nails. “Company stuff.”

“I thought you quit being the majority shareholder,” Kon pipes up.

“Yeah, not that. I… don’t laugh. Seriously. If you guys laugh, I’ll probably bust out the repressed tears I’ve been saving since January.”

“We won’t,” Cassie says seriously, her voice taking on the leader tinge to it that Tim likes a lot.

Tim blows gently on her left hand before switching to her right. “Okay, so long story short I decided that everyone has a right to medicine and that it’s too expensive. And I’m the head of an international organization, right?”

“I forget about that,” Bart says, tying off Cassie’s bubble pigtails before moving to Kon’s hair.

“Right. So I’m like, what if I just, you know, extend that to involve medicine. Start nationally and then maybe trick the Board into international one of these days. Made some killer presentations and speeches, got shot down each time. Board makes up some bogus community centers just to kick me while I’m down.” Tim switches back to Cassie’s left hand to do a double coat. “So, I’m all, okay, I’ll make my own damn company to do this. But then Bruce calls me and gets Lucius on me like a fucking weenie, and now I’m all out of backup plans. If I don’t move to blackmail. I can’t be the kind of person who does blackmail, guys, I can’t.”

Finished with Cassie’s nails, Tim scoots over to Kon to start on his. Bart finishes the weird ponytail mohawk on Kon’s head before moving to Tim’s hair.

“Damn, dude,” Kon says. “That really blows.”

“Wow, Tim,” Cassie says, elbowing Kon sharply. Kon actually jolts, but it doesn’t bother Tim because Tim has a death grip on his hand. “That’s… that’s really cool of you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim sighs. “Being really cool didn’t get me jack shit, did it? All it got me was practically corporate banned from talking about medicine distribution.”

Smiling slightly, Cassie rests her hand gently on Tim’s knee. “You saw a problem and you pushed to fix it. That’s, like, the definition of cool, Tim.”

“But I didn’t see it,” Tim laments, “right up to when it was shoved in my face obnoxiously. And now I have to do something about it, but I can’t think of anything else and it’s killing me. I feel like a failure.”

Bart tugs lightly on Tim’s hair. “You tried. You always try, Tim. You can’t not try. I think you would implode if you didn’t try, but sometimes trying means failing and you know that. Besides, it’s not your job to fix everything.”

“But it is my job to pull off the impossible,” Tim can’t help but argue. “I should have been able to do it.”

“Sometimes you can’t do things, Tim,” Kon says lightly, his eyes bearing into Tim’s. “And you have to accept that and move on.”

“Move on?” Tim switches Kon’s hands. “I can’t move on! Right now Jennifer is once again struggling to make enough tips to pay for Andrea’s monthly insulin and she still can’t get health insurance, and I can’t fix it!”

“That is a very specific circumstance that I am not surprised you fixated on,” Cassie says. “You did your best, Tim. We’re not telling you to give up, but we are telling you to, yeah, move on from where you’re stuck. You’re Tim goddamn Drake. You can solve anything.”

“That’s what I thought too.” Tim says, dropping Kon’s finished hand. “And look where it got me.”

“I think,” Bart says slowly, blindly groping for an elastic band, “that you just need a break. That’s what you’re looking for, right? You probably went to the manor first before calling me, and was reminded of it while you were there. And now you’re getting reminded of it here. Why don’t we just stop talking about it now?”

There’s a snap of elastic and Bart disappears briefly to get a hand mirror, showing off everyone’s hairstyles. Tim has an elaborate trio of fishtail braids that coalesce into one, big braid. A braid of braids. They all take a minute to compliment Bart in his handy work before moving to Cassie’s PlayStation (Tim gave it to her for her birthday, mostly for days like this) and booting up Smash.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Tim says as his Pikachu gets decimated by Kon’s Princess Zelda, Cassie’s Bowser doing it’s level best to flatten Bart’s Kirby beside them. “I think I need space from the problem.”

He loses all his lives first and leans into Kon’s side as he gets decked by Bart, Cassie right behind Tim in the loser’s roster. 

“Space is nice,” Kon says, leaning back into Tim. “We should go back to space one of these days. Just the four of us. It’ll be like a road trip, but it’s a spaceship trip.”

“Sounds awesome!” Bart exclaims, starting up another round. “We can totally use the spaceship we pretended to destroy. Me and Tim can fix it! It’ll be a bonding experience.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tim groans, scrubbing his face with his free hand. It costs him a life. “We always get up to some whacky bullshit in space and stay there way longer than we expected. I can not physically, nor mentally, handle that sort of strain right now.”

“Yeah, Tim’s right,” Cassie says, furiously smashing buttons. “Plus, I’m pretty sure my mom would ground me forever if I just left for space.”

“You’re an adult.” Kon says, whining slightly.

Cassie snorts. “Tell that to her.”

After Tim loses first again, he gets bored of Smash and is content to lean into Kon’s side as he, Bart, and Cassie try to flay each other alive with words and button mashing.

It’s a great distraction.

Time flies pretty fast, and then it’s dinner time and Tim absolutely insists on ordering sushi, because he’s feeling great right now and he wants his favorite food.

Because sushi is served cold, they have to walk to a place to eat. Tim foots the bill again because he’s an actual millionaire and just sits at the table with his best friends and his favorite food and everything feels a whole, metric fuck-ton of a lot better. 

“I know we’re distancing ourselves from it,” Kon says, non sequitur. “But I have to know. How likely is it that Gotham medication is drugged with Fear Gas or something? Because if it is, I can fly you in medicine, if you need me to.”

Cassie hisses something at Kon, but Tim just laughs. He feels so mellow, so full with contentment, he isn’t bothered at all.

“Well, Fear Gas isn’t much of a problem, because to put it in, Scarecrow would need to take control of a mass of pharmaceutical scientists or illegal chemists to make them, then set up an entire production line for it. Which is laughable, because no respectable drug ring is going to trade with the Scarecrow of all people.

It’s really funny that you mention that,” Tim laughs, “because I’ve heard it said so many times that drugs are easier…”

Tim trails off, his eyebrows furrowing as he stares blankly at his fugu nigiri rolls.

“Drugs are easier to get than medicine in Gotham.” Tim says slowly, turning the words over in his mind like it’s a piece of evidence he’s trying to figure out.

Then it clicks. The cog, the button on the reel, the secret ingredient to the can of whoop ass Tim has been trying to serve for all this time. He stands abruptly.

“Oh my God.” He says, his friends looking up at him in askance. “Oh my God. Bart, get me home right now, I have the fucking solution to my problem.”

_____

For Tim’s plan to work, he needs about half a dozen things from half a dozen people and he has only one idea of how to go about it.

A little bit of illegal pro bono.

And the first place to start is the most dangerous, and coincidentally, the closest it will be in months to come. 

It’s a Motel 8 in a remote, chilled area in Missouri that Tim pounces upon his first target.

“Okay,” Tim calls from where he’s perched on the window sill, traps and alarms deactivated. “So I’m going to do something stupid and crazy, and I need you not to attempt to murder me for it at any point in time.”

Jason levels a gun at Tim’s face without blinking an eye.

“The aforementioned stupid and crazy involves running around your previous… hmmm… territory, poaching drug chemists for my own nefarious purposes, and maybe actually stealing a bit of your old shit.”

The gun is very slowly cocked.

“Of course, I’m willing to play by your established rules and offer compensation for your magnanimous blind eye.”

The gun tilts impatiently, a sort of ‘go on’ gesture that has words reluctantly trailing out of Tim’s mouth. Jason’s such a holier-than-thou, dramatic ass bastard. Who does he think he is? John Wick?

(Focus, Tim. Focus. No mocking Jason out loud. He gets really touchy about it.)

“Two favors. No questions asked, no hard limits beyond murder. Can be cashed in at any time, any place in your world-trotting, occult-y, Outlaw nonsense.”

“Make it seven and an explanation, and I’ll think about it.” Jason rasps.

“Three, an explanation, and you agree.” Tim counters. 

The gun’s trigger makes a small click as Jason rests his finger against it.

“Shut up, Jason,” Tim snaps. “You want to hear what I’m going to be doing and you know it.”

“What I want,” Jason growls, “is you out of my damn room.”

“I’m not in your room,” Tim sing songs, wiggling slightly from where he is on the window. It pays to be small, sometimes.

“You definitely won’t be when I blast you out of that window.”

(Lame. Way to sound like a B-rate Bond villain, Jason.)

“Go ahead, then. You’re going to shoot me anyway, right? Do it.”

The unerring teal of Jason’s eyes glare fiercely at Tim, so much so that Tim almost wants to jump through the window now and see what will happen, but he has a goal here, dammit, and he will not give in.

“Jesus Christ, Drake,” Jason barks, tossing the gun aside onto his sad little bed. Heh, Tim knew the safety was still on. “Get the fuck in here.”

Tim hops down from the sill, smiling despite the growing scowl on Jason’s face. 

“Six and an explanation, and I’ll think about it.” Jason says slowly, like he’s certain Tim’s mentally disturbed. Jokes on him, Jason is throwing fucking boulders in a sugar glass castle and has zero room to insult Tim’s soundness of mind.

“Four, an explanation, and I give you updates.”

Jason hesitates, obviously weighing updates against the option of the ultimate decision. Tim is pretty sure updates will win out, because Jason knows that Tim will probably do his plan regardless of Jason’s decision. Or, that’s what he gambled when he threw the option out there.

“Fine,” Jason settles back against the singular, ratty armchair available in the motel room. “Let’s hear it, then, Drake.”

A vicious smile carves up Tim’s face. He never did mention how often those updates would be, did he?

_____

The Birds of Prey are on the prowl nearly every night, whether it be in Gotham or wherever else they’re needed.

But Tim has no need for the Birds, nor they for him. It’s a small, worse for wear high school that Tim makes his next stop to. It’s a stop he made frequently when he was fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, but only a handful of times after that before stopping all together. As he stalks across the familiar sloping tin of the school roof, Tim is suddenly struck with nostalgia. Of simpler times with simpler pleasures, and not isolating himself in his world wrecking, trauma perpetuating grief. 

Giggling like he’s fourteen and a little bit dumb again, Tim flips upside down at the crevice just above a certain window. He forwent the cowl this evening and instead allowed a domino to set his hair free, the feeling of it hanging from his head as the blood rushes to his brain familiar.

Tapping a rhythm with flittering fingers is another joyful comfort Tim didn’t know that he had lost. It’s a little scary how much his grief made him forget. A little like the months after he first lost his mother and came face to face with everything he had taken for granted about her. 

Helena snaps her head up from where she’s hunched over make-up papers. Every Thursday night, Helena stays late to tutor the students really struggling in her English class, and sometimes Tim would drop by to perch on her desk as she did it, pestering her for juicy tidbits of criminal activity and the worst sentences of each paper all while she griped at him good-naturedly.

Uncertain footsteps carry Helena closer to the window, where Tim wiggles his fingers at her, half pleading, half inviting. She opens the window without hesitation.

Smiling, Tim slips in, the movement a little graceless and unpracticed with the slight increase of height and mass Tim’s body has begrudged him over the years. 

“Hey there, Teach,” Tim says, adopting his mischievous, cocky voice from when he was thirteen and still trying to emulate Dick Grayson. “I though school was out for the night.”

“Maybe times have changed since you’ve graduated,” Helena replies, just faintly enough not to be her usual even-keeled retorts. “You are old now.”

“Old?” Tim protests, hopping up on the desk in a way that feels just right. “I’m nothing of the sort. Not even a fresh faced twenty yet.”

“Hey there, Robin,” Helena says, cutting their banter short. 

Tim smiles at her. “Hey there, Helena. How have you been?”

“Well enough,” Helena says, sliding herself back into her desk chair. “And you?”

“Much better,” Tim replies honestly. 

Helena blows out a breath, some of the tension in her shoulders unknotting. “Good. That’s really good, Robin.”

“It’s Red Robin now, you know,” Tim offers. “Since I’ve graduated and everything.”

Helena hums. “To me, you’ll always be Robin.”

A huff of air escapes Tim’s lungs while the rest gets stuck in his throat. This too is familiar. Like sitting on Helena’s couch after a team up. Like hovering over Barbra’s monitors when Huntress is on a long solo operation. Like getting called fratello when handing over Huntress’s spare quiver. 

You’ll always be my Robin, Kon had said years ago, and Tim had always thought that the sentiment was unique to his team. 

Maybe Tim’s always been a little bit dumb.

“And you’re my very favorite teacher,” Tim replies, choked.

Sitting next to Helena, he can’t bring himself to state why he came, just as Helena can’t bring herself to ask. So it’s there they sit, sometimes in comfortable silence and others in playfully acerbic exchanges.

Right up until Tim slips back out the window and Helena goes home. 

It might have been indulgent and a bit selfish, but Tim had needed that in a way he never knew he did. The next night, Huntress is on the prowl, and Tim whispers alongside her on the rooftops.

“Yes, Robin?” Huntress calls out, an exasperated flavor of fondness lilting her voice. 

“Huntress,” Tim replies, dropping down from his vantage point. “I had a few questions.”

“Of course,” Huntress answers, her eyes surveying the street, but her attention on Tim.

“Say, for instance, I did a few things illegally and Batman called you in concern and asked for your… contacts.”

Huntress stiffens. 

“How would you respond?”

“Seeing as you’re telling me preemptively, it seems as though you have a plan. Want to share with the class, Robin?”

“No can do, Teach. Not until I have your answer that is.”

After a moment of silence, Huntress cocks her head. “I don’t usually take sides in shit like that, but you know I’ll have your back, Robin. No two ways or conditions about it.”

Like you had mine, she doesn’t say. But it’s fine, because she doesn’t need to. They both know, and that’s enough. 

“Great.” Tim replies, smiling. “So how about we finish patrol and I’ll give you the rundown?”

And if when Tim follows Helena back to her apartment he slips off his cowl for the first time upon entering, well, that’s no one’s business but his and Helena’s.

_____

Much like with Helena, visits with Barbara were once a repeated occurrence in Tim’s life. Lessons in hacking, sleuthing, and general technological mischief were taught to Tim at her knee, and Tim has the skills to show for it. Stopping by after school or a particularly trying patrol was common, sometimes Tim just went over to her place for the weekend, no crime fighting required.

And much like with Helena, the frequency of these visits fell apart, along with Tim’s life, after he turned sixteen. And Tim hasn’t picked the ball back up again, even three years later. 

But a relationship with Barbara is easy. Easy and comfortable in a way that Tim finds difficult to find in so many other people. Some of Tim’s missions just don’t feel complete or safe without an Oracle issued info dump. Barbara is always present, even if she’s never seen.

And Tim has been using her like a computer program for a while now. He’s determined to fix it, and fix it for good this time.

He goes bearing gifts, highly luxurious gifts of caffeine and sweets. The nice, slightly expensive stuff he remembers Barbara adoring a few years ago.

It gets him through the door effortlessly.

“Hey, Babs.” Tim calls. 

Barbara leans back in her wheelchair, stretching her torso and fingers as she yawns.

“Hey, Tim. Set those over here, please.”

Tim obliges, and makes himself at home on Barbra’s couch. She sips delicately at her coffee, letting out an appreciative hum that lets Tim know he wasn’t completely off the mark. 

“So,” Barbara’s cup makes a plasticky sound when she sets it on the desk. “What can I do for you, Tim?”

“Less of what you can do for me,” Tim replies, sinking deeper into the cushions of the couch, “and more about what I’ll be doing, starting next week.”

“Gonna be committing crimes?” Barbara jokes, pulling her attention away from Tim to click at a few things on her monitor.

“Yeah, actually,” Tim says honestly.

Barbara looks up.

“Timothy Jackson,” she says slowly, like she’s savoring the words. She’s not, she’s just leaning all her weight against them, making sure they scream the threat in her shoulders. They do. “You had better explain or so help me Batman—”

“Don’t worry, Babs,” Tim says, pulling out a flash drive from his pocket as he rolls off the couch. “Not only will I be explaining, I will be presenting.” 

“Good lord,” Barbara says, lifting her glasses to rub her face. “Let’s see it, then.”

Although she sounds tense and irate, there’s a crinkle to her eyes that she just can’t hide. Hopefully, the same look will be reflected on Dick’s face when Tim gives him the same spiel, otherwise Tim’s plan is never going to work.

_____

The metaphorical red tape is cleared like draping vines in Tim’s righteous jungle path. With Jason’s preemptive permission and agreement, Helena’s connections, Barbara’s consent and all-seeing eyes, and Dick, Cass, and Tam (told so she would know to take a more active role in the management of the Neon Knights) having been informed, Tim is home fucking free.

The very, very first step is to pull up from untraceable funds. Sweden banks were made for that shit, and that’s child’s play to take care of. 

The second is… persuasive recruitment. It shouldn’t be too hard, Tim thinks.

After all, how often is it that the average illegal chemist is offered health benefits, a salary, and vacation days?

Rubbing one’s hands together is an extremely satisfying act that Tim will be participating in much more often, not matter how sinister it seems.

The time for scheming and planning has past. Now for the meaty, juicy, action.

Running a state-wide illegal drug ring can’t be that hard, can it?