Work Text:
Like most problems in Tim’s life, this whole situation could have been avoided if only he was a little less of a Walking Human Disaster.
Three weeks ago, when the invitation to the charity fundraiser for the Gotham Homeless Youth Center first arrived in the mail, Alfred had asked each of the boys if they had suitable attire. And Tim, distracted by the case notes he was pouring over as he shoveled Froot Loops into his mouth at three p.m. on a Sunday, assured him that, yes, his old suit still fit just fine, and no, he definitely didn’t need to try it on to check because he was just as infuriatingly five-foot-three as the last time he’d worn the thing.
Damian—who’d promptly requested that his own suit be altered to adjust for what Tim figured couldn’t be more than the half an inch he’d gained in height—suggested that Drake might do well to start looking into platform heels.
(The ensuing fight took up most of the next hour, eventually ending in Bruce banishing them both to their rooms on threat of no mid-week patrol.)
So that was strike one.
What Tim failed to take into account, however, is that all the extra training he’s been doing these past few months has added a few inches of girth to his scrawny limbs, which would be a welcome addition if not for the fact that now his trousers are just a smidge too tight. Not enough that anyone else would likely notice, but just enough that they’re a bit more… slim-fitting than Tim is used to.
Strike two.
Then there was the fact Tim hasn’t exactly been keeping up with his laundry as of late. Alfred’s been on a ‘teach the boys more independent life skills by sheer force of will’ kick lately—kind of funny considering that method obviously never worked for Bruce, who’d burnt toaster waffles last week and set off three of the manor’s fire alarms—so Tim’s been doing his own clothes washing. Or, more precisely, letting it pile up in the hamper to the point that when he emerged from his pre-gala shower a few hours ago with a towel wrapped around his waist, running on three hours sleep and a triple shot of espresso, there was exactly one pair of clean underwear left in his dresser drawer—of the dazzlingly ‘tighty-whitey’ variety that he’d stopped wearing sometime around middle school.
Strike three.
Strike four, was less Tim’s fault and more due to the unseasonably warm weather they’re having for October, which caused him to ditch his suit jacket back at the table, leaving him a bit more exposed than he’d otherwise be. Granted, he does have exceptionally bad luck as a person in general, so it’s still debatable who’s to blame.
But strike five was definitely all Tim.
It’s kind of amazing how someone as meticulously trained in stealth as Tim could be clumsy enough to knock a whole tray of mini éclairs off the edge of the dessert table with one wrong move of his elbow.
Equally amazing how, the very same reflexes that kicked in to shoot Tim’s hand out and drop him into a sudden deep squat both managed to save the tray from clattering to the floor, and to spell Tim’s doom.
Because the next thing he knows, the sound of ripping fabric is echoing in Tim’s ears and the room feels significantly draftier than it did just a second ago.
Tim shoots back upright, immediately turning around so that he’s facing the room with his back to the wall, the blood already rushing to his face. Setting the tray down, he moves swiftly backwards behind the dessert table over to the back corner of the room, where an inconspicuous glance over his shoulder reveals–
It’s bad.
It’s the entire back seam of his trousers, ripped in two, top to bottom, exposing his bleach-white briefs for all to see. Not to mention the fact that the room is filled with paparazzi at the moment, all no doubt thirsty for shots of Gotham’s favorite billionaire family in compromising situations.
Tim closes his eyes, bringing his hands up to cover his face. This can’t be happening. He’s screwed. So screwed. Absolutely nothing could make this worse.
“Yo, replacement.”
(Spoke too soon.)
“The old man wants us all out by that big-ass marble fountain in the foyer in five minutes,” Jason informs, snagging a short fluted glass full of chocolate mousse from the dessert table as he approaches. He’s dressed in what constitutes for Jason as formal attire—black jeans, a button-down with a tie, and a dark leather jacket instead of his usual brown one. Alfred must have put his foot down. “Someone from the Gazette’s gonna take a pic of us for their cover photo. Publicity stunt or something.”
(Someone, please, just kill Tim now.)
“Uh...” Having been trained by Batman means that Tim is acutely aware of exactly where the exits are located in any room he walks into, but he lets his eyes dart around the ballroom anyway in the desperate hope that he’s missed one. He hasn’t—the corner he’s both physically and metaphorically backed into is about as far from the door as humanly possible. “B wants us for a picture?”
“Mh-hm, of all of us,” Jason hums affirmatively, scooping up a large spoonful of mousse and shoveling it into his mouth. “First I told him no way, shove off, I’m not smiling next to the demon bat, but he gave me that patented disappointed look and was like,”—he puts on a gruff, mocking voice—“‘This is for the children, Jason, charitable donations increase thirty percent at events where we are all seen interacting together positively in public,’ which was kinda below the belt, but what can you do.” He takes another bite of mousse.
Tim blinks at him dumbly. “I… can’t.”
Jason quirks an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”
“I just– don’t think it’s a good idea,” Tim moves another half-step backwards, his back now flesh with the wall. “At the moment.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Obviously we’ll fix your hair first, Timbo, don’t worry about it.”
Tim frowns, his hand immediately moving up to his head. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“And I’m sure you can bum some concealer off Barbara to cover that giant zit on your chin.”
“Zit on my–?” Tim moves his fingers down to feel his face, then stops when he sees Jason’s smirk. “Fuck off, Jason,” he mutters darkly.
“C’mon, let’s get this over with, princess,” Jason says, and reaches out his hand like he’s going to grab Tim’s wrist to drag him over there but Tim swats it away irritably.
“I said no!” Tim snaps, his cheeks burning.
Jason’s expression changes to a scowl. “What’s the matter with you?”
Tim is acutely aware of how many pairs of eyes there are in the room, more than a few looking curiously in their direction. He can see flashes of cameras going off, the press circling around like vultures. He has no idea how he’s getting out of here.
“Why are you over here anyway?” Jason goes on.
“Just leave me alone.” Tim’s aiming for a sharp tone, but only manages to sound frazzled. “Tell B I’ll make it up to him next time.”
Jason’s eyes narrow as he takes a step forward, uncomfortably close now. “You’re being really fucking weird right now, can you jus–”
“I split my pants, alright?” Tim hisses in frustration.
Jason freezes mid-step, blinking. “Wait, really?”
Tim rolls his eyes. “No, I was joking,” he huffs. “Yes, really.”
Jason’s brows knit together. He steps to the side, craning his neck like he’s trying to see around Tim.
Tim shoves him back. “Well don’t look!”
“I wasn’t!” Jason hisses. “I just–” He blinks again. “You actually…?”
Tim squeezes his eyes shut and nods miserably, bracing himself for the absolute field day Jason is going to have with this information.
It doesn’t come.
“Ah. Right. Well.” Jason clears his throat and rubs a hand awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Let’s get you out of here then.”
Now it’s Tim’s turn to blink at his brother. “Wait, you’re helping me?”
“What, you think I’m gonna leave you to fend for yourself in a room full of reporters?” Jason looks almost offended at the idea. “I’m not fucking heartless, Timmy.”
(Speaking of heartless.)
“Tt. Hiding in the corner like children, I see.”
Tim glances up, revealing Damian standing there in his perfectly tailored three-piece-suit, glaring at them scornfully. “Come. Father says we must all be photographed immediately.”
Jason rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, tell the old man to take a selfie. Timmy and I are peacing out.” He makes the sign, holding up two fingers.
Damian’s eyebrows knit into a frown as he moves a step closer. “Both of you? You're not going”—he lowers his voice further—“on patrol, are you? Because Father explicitly forbade–”
“So what if we are?” Jason cuts him off. “You gonna rat us out? Did your precious League fail to teach you the cardinal rule about snitches and stitches?”
Damian’s expression is scathing, but he merely crosses his arms over his chest. “Take me with you,” he demands. “I wish to patrol as well.”
“Dami.” Tim runs a hand over his face in utter frustration. “We’re not patrolling.”
“Tt. Then where are you going?”
“I– we’re not–” Tim stutters.
“None of your business, pipsqueak,” Jason interrupts. “Go run along back to Daddy.”
Damian’s gaze narrows. “You two are behaving strangely,” he says, and then sidesteps like he’s trying to see around Tim, but Jason grabs him by the wrist and jerks him backwards.
Damian lets out an indignant little noise and starts to twist away, but Jason just rolls his eyes, mutters a quick, “Oh for fuck’s sake...” and lowers his mouth to the boy’s ear, hand cupped in front to shield his lips from view.
There’s a beat. Then the little brat’s eyes go wide.
This is it. Tim’s life is officially over. The two people most likely to blackmail him from now until kingdom come have both just been made privy to the most embarrassing, compromising moment of Timothy Drake’s life and there’s no way in hell they’re not going to mercilessly–
“We will get you out of here, Drake.”
And for once, there’s not a hint of sarcasm or malice to the kid’s expression. He’s standing ram-rod straight, looking somehow equal parts sincere and uncomfortable.
(Maybe Tim should split his pants more often.)
Jason clears his throat, all business now. “So what’s our extraction plan here? Did you drive yourself?”
Tim shakes his head. “Alfie dropped me off. Was planning to get a ride home with B.”
“And I took my bike here,” Jason muses, chewing on his lower lip as he thinks, “so that’s not gonna work.”
“Father drove,” Damian pipes up, pointing across the room toward the bar where Bruce—in full Brucie Wayne mode—is chatting animatedly with a few older ladies. “We could–”
A little gasp of “No, don’t tell B!” slips out of Tim’s mouth before he can stop it.
Damian just stares at him as though he’s gone mad. “I had no intention of telling Father your plight.” He looks over to Jason. “If you can provide a suitable distraction, I can slip the keys off of him unnoticed.”
Jason snorts. “Who needs keys to borrow a car? I’ll just hotwire it.”
Damian frowns. “You know how to evade the anti-theft device?”
“Bitch, who do you think installed the anti-theft?”
Tim and Damian both respond by each making a small, satisfied little humming noise in the back of their throats. Jason does have a point there.
Damian turns and locks eyes with Tim. “How extensive is the damage?” he inquires, and Tim has to fight the urge to drop his own gaze in shame that he’s even having this conversation with an eleven-year-old.
Tim grits his teeth. “Very,” he answers honestly, aware once more of the draft on his backside.
“Can you escape to the lobby undetected?” Damian goes on. “If we flank you on either side?”
Tim shakes his head, cheeks burning again. “No. I– It’s really noticeable,” he admits.
Jason and Damian exchange a grimace.
“Alright, plan B,” Jason declares, gaze traveling around the room in full tactical mode now. He holds out his hand expectantly. “Dami, give me your jacket.”
“What, to conceal him?” Damian looks aghast. “This suit is a Boglioli.”
“Since when do you even know what a Boglioli is?” Jason says with a scoff. He makes a grabby motion with his hand. “C’mon. Chop-chop.”
Damian scowls. “Use yours.”
“That’s even more suspicious and you know it.”
Over their bickering, Tim heaves out a sigh. “Look, I appreciate you trying, but I don’t think it even matters,” he says, pointing around the room at the sea of paparazzi snapping photos. “No matter what we do, they’re gonna see and I’m gonna be on the cover of every stupid tabloid tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t be defeatist, Drake,” Damian chides, and to Tim’s great surprise, the kid shimmies out of his jacket.
“Yeah, chin up, Timmy,” Jason agrees, nodding, as Damian passes it to Tim. “That was only part one of my plan.”
Tim wraps the jacket around his waist—ignoring Damian’s shudder. The arms aren’t quite long enough to tie in a knot, so he just holds them together in his fist awkwardly. “And what exactly is part two?”
A grin spreads across Jason’s face. “Part two…” Keeping his back to the wall, Jason moves a few paces away, “is run.”
Immediately, Jason slaps the whole row of light switches on the wall, plunging the gala into darkness. Gasps and little shrieks echo around the room, no doubt from concerned citizens expecting any number of Gotham's foes to attack, and Tim feels more than a little guilty about distressing them all. But then Damian grabs his arm and grits out a “Move, Drake!” and the two of them are both bolting for the exit, Jason hot on their heels.
The lobby outside is a swarm of commotion as well, with an equal number of citizens trying to get into the ballroom as there is trying to get out. Jason signals them both through a side door—clearly meant for the staff—and then a moment later they’re racing toward the parking lot.
“Where’s he parked?” Jason calls over.
“A valet took it,” Damian replies as they run, and Tim groans internally. “But there might be a–”
“Wait!” Jason comes skidding to a stop in front of a familiar, rusty, old beater of a vehicle—the only type that can survive parked on the street in Blüdhaven more than twenty-four hours without getting stolen. A grin spreads across his face. “Dick’s here!”
“Tt,” Damian scoffs, though it sounds almost amused this time as Jason opens the drivers’ side door easily. “Grayson never bothers to lock it.”
“Probably because he’ll get more in insurance money for it than it’s worth,” Tim quips, opening the passenger door. He’s just about to climb in when Jason stops him with a yelp.
“Whoa, whoa, let me put something down first!” Jason says, shoving his arm back out of the car and reaching into the backseat to retrieve a plastic Walmart bag from the messy floor, much to Tim’s confusion. “Jesus Timbo, first rule of joyriding is you bring the car back as nice as you found it,” he says as he spreads the bag over the seat cushion.
“What are you talking about?” Tim frowns. “I’m just sitting on it.”
Damian—who’s paused midway into climbing into the backseat—gives him a strange look. “You're ill,” he says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“What?” Tim’s head is swirling. “I’m not sick.”
Jason’s eyebrows raise. “That’s frankly more concerning then...”
“What are you talking about?”
“If you're not ill,” Damian says, still staring at him, “then do you simply make it a habit to defecate in public?”
“To do– what?!” Tim splutters in horror. “Who said anything about that?”
“You did!” Jason retorts, looking utterly confounded. “You told me you shit your pants!”
“I said I split my pants, you moron!”
There’s a moment of utter silence, their panting breaths from having just sprinted to the parking lot the only sound between them.
It’s broken by a loud snort from Damian, followed instantly by Jason’s guffawing laughter. A second later, Tim is joining in, and then all three of them dissolve into a fit of giggles.
“F-Fuck, Timmy!” Jason spits out between laughs. “I thought–” He gasps for breath, “I thought you really shit yourself!”
“I did as well,” Damian admits through giggles.
Tim’s laughing too hard to reply at the moment. They all climb into Dick’s car—though with far less urgency now—and shut the doors after them. Jason whips a multitool out of his inner jacket pocket and gets to work on removing the panel under the steering wheel, his shoulders still shaking with mirth.
As Jason starts to strip the wires, Tim wipes a hand at his face to clear the moisture from his eyes. “You seriously thought I shit my pants and then asked you two—of all people—for help?”
“Hey,” Jason huffs out, pointing the end of his multitool at his brother. “Don’t knock us. We got you out, didn’t we?”
(And, well, Tim has to admit that they did.)
“Drake,” Damian says, and Tim turns around to look at the boy in the backseat. “There are fates even one trained by the League of Assassins does not wish upon their worst enemy,” he says solemnly.
“Damn straight,” Jason agrees. He touches the two exposed wires together, creating a spark, and the car revs to life. “Alright,” he says, pulling the car into gear, “who wants to get fro-yo?”