Archive of Our Own ^beta

Timothy Drake-Wayne is running on empty. 

Actually, that’s being too generous. He reached empty about nineteen hours ago and is now digging deeper into the well of exhaustion that has his hands shaking despite his best efforts to keep them steady.

The three-thousand dollar fountain pen slips out of his grasp, leaving a meandering streak of wet ink on the contract that will now need to be reprinted. It’s— Tears stab the back of his eyes. It’s the last thing he needs when they already feel like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper to smooth out the tiniest imperfection at the hands of a master carpenter.

“Hold it together,” Tim orders.

“What was that, Mr. Drake-Wayne?” his executive assistant asks, peering through the open door into his office.

Tim takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. It stopped helping hours ago. His nerves are shot. His patience is frayed. He’s just— 

“I need another copy of the L&J Holdings contract,” Tim says, pasting a parody of his usual smile on his face. 

His executive assistant frowns, brown eyes trailing over Tim’s features, before saying, “Maybe you should head home early, sir. You—”

Tim would like nothing more than to go home and crawl in bed and pass out for the next twenty-four hours. He doesn’t even care where that bed is: his penthouse, the nearest safe house, Wayne Manor, a hotel. Anything would be welcome at this point. He doesn’t even need a bed. A couch would do. Or a floor, as long as it came with a pillow. 

Scarecrow is finally back in Arkham after being on the streets for almost three weeks. The newest iteration of fear gas is a nasty concoction and all of the Bats ended up on a very unpleasant ride at one point or another. Every other case got pushed aside to get Scarecrow off the streets and back in Arkham. 

They finally managed it last night. Well, this morning. 

Tim didn’t even have time for a batnap before he had to shower and get dressed for work. He would have given a non-vital body part to be able to call in sick today. But—

“I can’t. The Board of Directors meeting is in half an hour,” Tim replies, unable to keep the sheer exhaustion and frustration out of his voice.

He missed the last two meetings due to an alien invasion and that unfortunate—most hilarious crap ever, according to Jason—incident that ended up with Tim being stuck as a Newfoundland puppy for five days until Zatanna Zatara found a way to break the curse.

Tim is the face of Wayne Enterprises these days. He’s the CEO.

A large part of the family’s cover rests on Tim’s shoulders. He’s nothing like Brucie Wayne. He’s not an airhead. He’s a genius with incredible business acumen and a sharp sense of responsibility who took over as head of the company as a teenager.

He can’t just skip another board meeting.

Not when his excuse for missing the last one—oh, how Tim will make Damian pay for this when he least expects revenge—went something like, “I shall be leading today’s meeting, as Drake has absconded with one of our Learjets and a Brazilian supermodel.”

Tim will never forget how several board members frowned or sneered at Damian’s lie when Tim watched the security footage. It took forever to get the old geezers to take Tim seriously. He really doesn’t need Damian sabotaging his public persona just because the little gremlin wants to be CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

Regardless of what Damian thinks, or his status as Bruce’s “blood heir”, Damian is just a kid. He definitely isn’t ready to face the cutthroat world of boardroom politics.

“Right,” the executive assistant says before coming to grab the ruined contract off Tim’s desk. “I’ll print another one for you, sir, and see that it gets the required signatures from Acquisitions.”

“Thank you,” Tim replies, head falling back against the neck support of his office chair.

It’s so tempting to close his eyes and promise himself it’ll just be a teeny, tiny nap. So, so tempting. But Tim knows himself better than that. Even as tired as he is, he isn’t stupid enough to fall for that. Because the next time he falls asleep, he’s sure to pass out for at least a full day. And if any of his brothers dare to wake him up for anything barring a world-ending emergency, he’s going to put hair removal cream in their shampoo bottles.

“Two and a half hours, Tim. It’s only two and a half hours. You can do it.”

It’s only been … what? Seventy-six hours since he last slept? That’s barely over three days. He can totally—

The tears spill over like a dam bursting.

No matter how many times Tim hiccups, “Stop b-being a b-baby!” at himself, it doesn’t stop the tears from falling down his face. The crying, because his life is a huge bag of dicks right now, makes his headache even worse than it already was. It’s not quite a migraine, but it’s veering in that direction at alarming speeds.

Tim might be a strong, smart, steady, stubborn superhero, but he’s also mortal. He has limits, whether he wants to acknowledge them or not. He can only handle so much before his body starts glitching like a computer that needs to be rebooted to finish a necessary installation to ensure everything functions properly.

He can’t do this.

It’s galling. His pride wants him to suck it up and stick it out.

But Tim just— He can’t. He shouldn’t.

Things have been getting better with the family. They still fight and bicker and piss each other off on the regular. But injuries have been down, and cases have been solved more quickly lately. They’ve each made a promise to call for backup whenever they need it, instead of being stubborn, reckless idiots. 

It’s … it’s just on a trial basis, but it’s actually been working. 

Tim refuses to be the first one to break that promise.

His hands shake as he picks up his cell phone. It unlocks with his fingerprint. There are hundreds of phone numbers in his contacts: socialites, business partners, caterers, etc., but he only has a few people he regularly keeps in touch with.

Bruce is doing maintenance to the Watchtower security systems today. Damian is at school. Even if he weren’t, Tim would literally only call him as an absolute last resort. Dick is at work. Tim knows for a fact that Dick would come, and he will never forget Dick’s promise to always catch him, but he has something particular in mind and Dick isn’t the best person to achieve Tim’s desired getaway plan.

Tim opens his sparse text thread with Jason Todd and shoots I need backup! into the virtual ether.

The three bouncing dots immediately appear on his screen, before a single word comes through. Where?

Tim drops his location pin into the chat and adds two words. Kidnap me.

Before the third dot can bounce, Jason sends back a smirking face and a gun emoji.

Huffing, Tim shoves his phone in his pocket. 

“He’s going to count this as a favor repaid,” Tim grumbles. It’s irritating because getting a favor out of Jason is like trying to pry puppies and kittens out of Damian’s hands. It’s almost impossible. Tim’s been hoarding the two favors Jason owes him for close to six months. Jason’s going to give him so much crap for calling one in because he’s tired and whiny like a toddler who missed nap time.

Tim’s phone buzzes. He ignores it to clean his face as best as he can with a handkerchief in his top left desk drawer. His phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

“What now?” Tim grumbles.

He unlocks the phone, stares at the screen, blinks, and then cackles with laughter. It sounds slightly hysterical and unhinged, but Tim doesn’t care. Because this— Tim snorts so hard that it hurts. His stomach aches like he’s competing in a sit-up competition with his brothers where the winner gets exemption from being the victim of pranks for an entire month.

Jason dropped a bastardized version of a pizza delivery tracking system into the chat. It shows a cartoon version of The Red Hood’s helmet following a red line to a cartoon version of Tim’s face, with tears spraying from his overly large blue eyes, a “SAVE ME!” speech bubble beside it. At the top of it is a red clock counting down above a serif font that’s dripping blood as it announces: The Red Hood is on the way. You can track his progress below.

“How l-long has h-he been w-working on t-this?” Tim laughs because there’s no way this is something new. Jason must have spent hours on this stupid program solely so that he could troll his family with it.

This is genius! Tim’s jealous as all get out that he didn’t think of it himself. 

The little red helmet veers into a series of back alleys, likely to avoid an absurd amount of Gotham traffic. Two small guns appear and fire tiny rubber bullets at the glass of the screen. Cracks appear on the glass; it shatters in a dramatic display to reveal the words: Your Kidnapping Is Running Ahead Of Schedule!

A little animated All-Blade slices across the clock, splitting the countdown apart to reveal it now reads 5:13 left.

The elevator dings. 

Tim ignores it, assuming it’s his executive assistant returning with the reprinted contract. It’s not an essential task. He could technically leave it for when he comes back to work post-abduction. But he might have just enough time to sign off on it really quickly before Jason—

“Ah, Timothy, you’re here. Excellent. I look forward to the presentation on diversifying our interests in South America.”

And just like that, the headache that Tim was able to ignore by focusing on Jason’s ridiculous prank program rears back to the forefront of his attention. He locks his phone and shoves it in the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Gerald, it’s a pleasure to see you,” Tim lies as he stands and walks around his desk, intentionally using the man’s first name, even though Gerald hates it when Tim does that. If Gerald is going to patronizingly call Tim by his first name, Tim is absolutely petty and vindictive enough to return the favor.

The Board of Directors meeting isn’t supposed to start for another fourteen minutes. Gerald is well-known for walking in exactly when the clock ticks the hour as if his presence alone is what lets a meeting begin. If he’s here early, which he is, obviously, it’s not going to be for—

“Have you been able to refocus your attention on Wayne Enterprises since your trip?” Gerald asks with a not-so-subtle sneer of distaste on his face. “Your brother implied there were … distractions.”

Tim is going to accidentally shove Damian into Gotham Harbor the next time they’re on a patrol near there. He’s going to buy a fluffy black pet bunny and name it Dami-Wami. He’s going to text Dick and tell him that he overheard Damian crying into Titus’s fur about how much he misses Dick and Dick’s hugs. He’s going to—

“I assure you, Wayne Enterprises holds my dedicated attention,” Tim replies. 

He can’t do anything about how potentially red and puffy and bloodshot his eyes might be from crying. All he can do is hope that Gerald doesn’t think he’s been drinking illegally and is now hungover at the office.

“I’m pleased to hear that. I would hate to learn that you’ve decided to follow in Bruce’s footsteps in regards to … flights of fancy,” Gerald states with a huff. 

“There have been no distractions recently,” Tim replies, hating, as he always does, how Bruce’s cover as Brucie makes people think they have the right to mock and criticize Tim’s mentor and adoptive father. Tim would not be who he is today without Bruce’s influence.

“Excellent. Youthful indiscretions—”

The elevator dings.

The doors open to reveal three people: Tim’s executive assistant, who has a stack of papers clutched tightly in his trembling hands, a security guard who’s so pale she looks like she’s about to faint, and The Red Hood. 

Jason stalks out of the elevator in full gear. He draws a gun and points it right at Tim’s face. “You’re coming with me.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Gerald demands with red-faced bluster after turning to look at the commotion. “How did you get up here?”

“Let’s go, Drake. Time’s ticking,” Jason taunts as he wags his gun back and forth.

“Security, arrest him!” Gerald orders.

Tim watches all of the blood drain from the security guard’s face. To be fair, Jason did make quite a name for himself when he first came back to Gotham. He’s killed … well, a lot of people. Whether those people deserved it or not is still a heated debate between various family members. But it’s not like she knows about the quasi-ceasefire Bruce managed to wrangle Jason into. 

She firms her jaw and reaches for her stun-gun, only to freeze when Jason clicks off the safety, cocks the hammer, and says, “Get in the elevator, Drake, you’re—”

“—coming with you. I heard you the first time, Hood,” Tim says, forcing as much boredom into his voice as he can manage. It’s a lot. He’s an old hat at getting kidnapped. Civilian Timothy Drake-Wayne has been abducted almost as many times as Dick was back when Dick was Robin. It’s … not a record he ever thought anyone in the family would break.

“Mr. Drake-Wayne, I—”

“Please vacate the elevator,” Tim says, interrupting the security guard. “I don’t want any of you to get hurt on my account. I’m sure I’ll be back to work in a few days. You know how these things are.”

He feels bad for the security guard and his executive assistant, but a mean little part of Tim’s heart is bitterly pleased that Gerald’s shut up and shuffled several steps backward. It’s really Gerald’s own fault he’s here. He’s the one who came early to berate Tim for stuff that Tim didn’t even do.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call Bruce. There’s really no need to bother him with—”

“Shut up, Drake! Get in the elevator!” Jason orders, poking Tim in the ribs with the muzzle of the gun after recocking the hammer and flicking the safety back on once the security guard no longer has a direct line of sight.

“Just leave that on my desk and I’ll sign it when I get back,” Tim says nonchalantly as the elevator doors start closing with him and Jason inside the car.

Tim collapses against Jason as soon as the doors close, his legs giving out beneath him as exhaustion drags him down. It’s not intentional at all, but it’ll definitely help sell this as a kidnapping on the security cameras.

“I’ve got you, Baby Bird,” Jason whispers, the voice filter temporarily turned off on his helmet. “I’ve got you.”

“Keycard,” Tim whispers, eyelids fluttering shut as he struggles to stay awake long enough to at least reach the getaway vehicle.

Jason grabs Tim’s keycard off his lapel. It overrides all security-locked features when combined with the numerical code everyone in the family knows. Jason swipes it in the elevator panel, punches in the code, and chooses the express option to the parking garage. However Jason got here, he’s not planning to leave the same way. The elevator speeds downward, floor numbers flying past so quickly that they blur to Tim’s sleepy gaze.

When the doors open into the parking garage, there aren’t any security guards. Either their response time is piss poor or the supervisor who deployed their positions needs to be fired. If this were a real kidnapping—

“No, Jason. You can’t take the Jag, Jason. The last time I let you borrow a car, you jumped out as you drove it into the harbor as petty revenge for that time I stopped you from killing a drug lord, Jason,” Jason mutters, mockingly mimicking Bruce’s voice as he carries Tim to the gorgeous silver Jaguar that’s parked in front of the CEO PARKING ONLY (VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER’S EXPENSE) sign on the cement wall.

“Keys?”

Somehow, Tim manages to dig them out of his pocket and hand them over. 

Tim blinks once. Jason’s opening the passenger side door of the sportscar. Tim blinks twice. Jason’s fastening just the lap portion of the seatbelt, muttering, “You’re so exhausted you’ll fall asleep and strangle yourself.” Tim blinks a third time. Jason is starting the engine and peeling out of the parking garage as if he’s on the last lap of a professional race and is about to cross the finish line with a time that will beat the track record.

“A hundred bucks says they’ve already tried to call B,” Jason says. 

“No bet.”

“Five hundred.”

“No bet.”

“Ugh. Stingy, rich brat. I came here, on my day off, might I add, out of the goodness of my heart—”

Tim slumps sideways, even though the middle console digs painfully into his ribs, and sighs as his cheek lands on warm leather. He nuzzles into Jason’s shoulder, the scent of gun oil and leather soothing him. 

“Thanks for the save, Jason,” Tim says, his tongue tripping over the words as exhaustion drags his eyelids down with ten-ton weights.

Jason wraps an arm around his shoulders and says, “Anytime, Baby Bird. I’ve got you.”

Tim inhales deeply and then relaxes. It smells like Jason. It smells like safety. He falls asleep with a smile on his face to his big brother petting his hair.