Chapter Text

The phone rang at 11:47 PM. Marshall from the contracts division. Never a good sign.

"Mr. Drake-Wayne, we have a situation with the government bids."

Tim pulled up the spreadsheets on his secondary monitor, already feeling the familiar tension crawling up his spine. "What kind of situation?"

"Three competitors just submitted bids on seventeen separate contracts. All of them identical. All of them are 15-20% below our quotes."

Tim stared at the numbers. That wasn't possible. Those margins were—

"And they're all below cost," Marshall continued. "Our analysis shows they'd be losing money on every single contract. But they're moving forward anyway."

"And how is that even POSSIBLE?" Tim shouted. 

He was tired of it. Tired of being the person called to solve everyone's problems. Tired of carrying the responsibility of a Fortune 500 company on his shoulders while also being Red Robin, while also trying to keep Bruce's legacy intact, while also—

Stop. Focus. One crisis at a time.

"Well, we could always take the approach of matching their pricing structure incrementally—start with a 5% reduction, monitor market response, then adjust quarterly based on competitor movements. It's a measured response that shows we're willing to compete without committing to an unsustainable price war. We'd need to run the numbers on margin impact, of course, but if we tighten operational costs in parallel—"

"No, don't explain it again, I understood the first time, I just can't believe—"

"If we did match their prices."

"NO. No, Marshall, we can't just match their price. That's not sustainable!"

He let Marshall drone on in the background. Muttering the facts under his breath. Maybe if he repeated the problem enough times, he would come to the answer. He was Red Robin, he found Bruce lost in time. He could and will figure it out.

Think, Drake. You've solved impossible cases. You've outsmarted Ra's al Ghul. You can figure out a bidding war.

"Three competitors, identical bids, seventeen contracts..." he said to himself while Marshall sounded like a broken record.

The words and numbers started to blur together in Tim's eyes. His breath was coming faster. He was going to—

"They're loss-leading," a voice directly behind him said.

If Tim had been functioning on at least 3 hours of sleep, he wouldn't have nearly tripped over himself trying to get battle ready to fight off another Assassin from Ra's. It would have been a quick defeat seeing how he nearly tripped over his own jacket.

Pathetic. Some vigilante you are. Can't even sense someone entering your own space.

He automatically reached for the panic button, before he heard the next words.

"Relax, Replacement." Jason stepped fully into the doorway, hands visible and away from his weapons.

Tim's hand hovered over the panic button, his other hand still clutching his phone.

Jason. Not an assassin. Just Jason. Who broke into my office. Why did Jason break into my office?

"I'm going to have to call you back…" Tim hung up on Marshall before hearing a response. "How long have you been standing there?"

Jason showing up unannounced was one thing, but sneaking up on him usually meant he was mad and wanted to torture him a little bit.

Jason chuffed out, "Long enough to know you've got three competitors bidding below cost to freeze you out of government contracts."

Tim's eyes followed Jason's movements as he positioned himself closer to the window. His brain was not quite understanding the words Jason was saying. It took a second for him to replay what just happened.

Was… was Jason talking to him using corporate jargon? Where the hell did he pick that up?

Jason continued speaking, oblivious to Tim's mental breakdown happening. "Your competitors are obviously using predatory pricing. They're not trying to make money—they're trying to starve you out. Once you're weakened or gone, they'll raise prices and recoup their losses. It's textbook."

Tim blinked. That sounded exactly like it was. How didn’t he see it already? How did Jason see it?  "How do you know about predatory pricing?"

"Because I can read? It's not rocket science." Jason turned toward the window, "Don't try to match their prices. That's stupid. You'll bleed out faster. Differentiate instead. Emphasize quality, reliability, track record. Government contracts aren't just lowest bid—they're lowest responsive bid. Check their proposals. I guarantee they're cutting corners somewhere. Find it, highlight your quality advantage, make the client understand that cheap now means expensive later."

Tim was moving toward his computer, fingers already flying across the keyboard, pulling up competitor proposals. If what Jason is saying is true… then that means they should have a statement like… this!

"Their delivery timeline is six months." Tim was scrolling through documents, comparing numbers. "Our engineers said eight minimum—"

"There you go. They're lying or cutting corners on testing. Emphasize your quality assurance process. Done."

Tim looked up at Jason, who looked completely done with the conversation. 

Books you say?

"Also check if they can financially sustain these losses. If they're PE-backed or overleveraged, they'll crack eventually. You just wait them out." Jason added.

That was… actually pretty good advice. Really good advice. The kind of advice I pay consultants thousands of dollars for.

Tim had no idea how to respond.

What the hell is happening right now? Is this a fever dream? Did an assassin actually break in and murder me? And now I'm bleeding out and hallucinating this whole thing?

Jason pulled his helmet on, a modulated voice continued to say, "Don't panic, don't match prices, submit quality bids, wait for one of them to break. You're welcome…"

Thank you?

"... and about that Burnside safehouse—"

"Bruce is using it as a backup cache for the Watchtower teleporter. Files are in the Cave, subsection Delta-9. I'll send you access codes." Tim responded automatically. Still in shock from what even was his life.

Jason paused with one foot out the window.

"Thanks," Jason said, then annoyedly, "Fix your corner camera, idiot. You've got a blind spot."

That explains why there were no alarms.

Then he was gone, dropping out the window into Gotham's night, grappling away before Tim could say anything else.

Tim looked at the data, clearly showing the truth. He texted Marshall—they were about to do some competitor analysis.

-

Within the week, they had a comprehensive analysis… Jason was right.

The competitors' proposals were enough to show for corner-cutting, emphasizing WE's quality advantage, highlighting their track record. Tim rolled it out within days.

He sat in meetings with the contracts team, explaining Jason's strategy like he'd come up with it himself.

"We're not competing on price. We're competing on value. Quality, reliability, proven track record." Tim pulled up the analysis. "Government contracts reward lowest responsive bid—emphasis on responsive. If they can't deliver what they promise, their low bid doesn't matter."

The contracts manager nodded along, taking notes. "This is solid strategy, Mr. Drake-Wayne. Should have been our approach from the start."

It was. If I'd just been smart enough to see it. If I hadn't been too exhausted to think clearly.

Three weeks later, the results came in. WE won three of the four contracts. One competitor was already restructuring due to financial difficulties, exactly as Jason had predicted.

Tim stared at the reports on his desk, his coffee going cold.

It had been weeks since Tim last spoke with Jason. Since Jason had diagnosed a problem he was having and handed him a solution. More like threw it at his feet, like it wasn’t even worth anything to him.

Tim had no idea where it even came from, but he was sure if he ever asked Jason about it, he would deflect, and they would never speak of it again.

Tim tried to move on, he did. Tim’s curiosity though… made him hyperfixate on this… this revelation? Was that the word for it? And with each new problem that arose in the company, he had the same curiosity that would itch the back of his brain, always asking if Jason would have anything to say about it.

Would Jason see the pattern here? 

The newest project was sitting on his desk. Outlining problems and potential solutions for some supply chain stuff in some random branch of the company. He barely looked it over. He procrastinated. That's what he does when he feels unmotivated.

Or when you're scared you'll fail. Again. When you're terrified that everyone will finally realize you have no idea what you're doing.

He was only paying half-attention to the executive in the meeting when he saw his phone screen light up. A blocked number showed up on his phone screen, Tim jumped up before he had time to realize what he was doing, and left the meeting, “I need to take this”.

Please please please please-

"I need a favor," It was Jason. 

YES! Play it cool, Drake. Don’t scare him off. "Jason? I'm glad you called! I was about to see if I could get a hold of you."

What was that, Drake? Too forward! Cool it!

"That advice you gave me? We won three of the four contracts. One competitor's already restructuring due to financial difficulties. You were right!"

Tim waited to hear Jason shocked or laugh that he didn’t know it would work… 

"...uh yeah, so I was calling to ask about—" 

HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY! IT WASN’T A COINCIDENCE THEN? YOU GOT HIM NOW!

"Yes, and before you do, could you help with another thing I have going on right now?" Tim tried to be casual, be cool.

“... What is it?” He could taste the hesitation.

"Could you look over some supply chain? We’ve been trying something new, with new vendors, but it’s had a few hiccups.... I'd like to hear your opinion on it."

The key was in the framing. Not "I need help." Not "I can't figure this out." Just "I'd like your opinion." Casual. Optional. Low pressure.

Also a complete lie. Tim had been procrastinating with this vendor issue for two weeks and getting nowhere. Had seriously considered just closing his eyes and picking suppliers at random because nothing he did seemed to work.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" 

Tim pressed forward. Make it sound reasonable. Make it sound fair.

"I'm 100% serious. It'll only take an hour? Less? It’ll just be repaying me for whatever you need, think of it as prepayment. See you tomorrow? At nine?"

There was a long pause. Tim could practically hear Jason's brain working.

Please say yes. Please don't see through this. Please give me this chance.

"At WE headquarters? No, I'm not going. I'll just figure this out myself. Later, replacement."

Jason hung up.

Tim stared at his phone, running the conversation back through his mind.

Too fast. Pushed too hard. Jason's not ready for in-person meetings yet. I need a different approach.

He slumped in his chair, the exhaustion crashing back over him. The supplier problem was still there. The panic was still there. The drowning feeling was still there.

 Just me and spreadsheets and panic attacks at 3 AM.

He settled in and read the damn report again. Every supplier. Every delivery record. Every quality metric. If Jason wasn't coming, Tim had to solve this himself. Had to figure out the pattern he was missing.

Financial stability. Capacity utilization. What am I not seeing?

He built a comparison matrix. Scrapped it. Built another one. The numbers swam together. His coffee had gone cold hours ago.

This is fine. I've done this before. I can do this. I don't need Jason's help. I don't need anyone's help. I'm Red Robin. I found Bruce lost in time. I can figure out supplier risk management.

Three hours later, Tim's eyes were burning. He'd eliminated two suppliers as too risky, but he still couldn't see the whole picture. Couldn't identify the pattern Jason would have spotted in thirty seconds.

Just pick randomly. Flip a coin. At this point, chance would probably work better than whatever I'm doing.

He pulled up the financial data for the sixth time, trying to see what Jason saw. Trying to think like someone who ran a criminal empire and “read books”.

There has to be a way to organize this that makes sense.

Tim's head was pounding. The Nest felt too small, too quiet. Just him and the glow of monitors and the crushing weight of decisions he wasn't qualified to make.

I'm going to pick the wrong suppliers. We're going to have supply chain failures. It's going to cost millions. And it'll be my fault for not being smart enough to—

His phone buzzed.

Tim lunged for it so fast he nearly knocked over his cold coffee.

Jason: Fine. I'll be there at 9. 

Tim stared at the message for a full minute, his exhausted brain trying to process.

He said yes. He's coming. This is going to work.

Relief flooded through him so intense it made his eyes sting. He wasn't alone. Not now. Jason was coming.

Tim responded: Thank you! I’ll let the people at the front desk know.

He put his phone down and let himself breathe for the first time in hours.

Don't mess this up, Drake. This might be your only chance.

Tim looked up when the office door opened.

Jason looked uncomfortable, and a little pissed. But when wasn't he mad? But here he was actually here at Wayne Enterprise headquarters.

He came. He actually came. Don't stare. Act normal.

Tim finally found his voice. "You came."

"I'm just here so I can get access to the surveillance equipment." Jason drawled.

He dropped into a chair and somehow made the firm chair seem like he could take a nap in it. Tim had napped in it before and it was terrible.

"Let's get this over with. Show me the supplier data."

Tim observed for a second… Was he making the right choice?

Tim turned to his computer and pulled up multiple screens of supplier data. Lists of companies. Purchase orders. Delivery records. Financial information. "This is where we keep running into an issue. We've diversified to twelve suppliers across four product categories, but we're still getting delays and quality inconsistencies. I've tried mapping dependencies, cross-referencing delivery schedules, analyzing capacity reports—but every time I think I've identified the bottleneck, another one pops up. It's like playing whack-a-mole with a supply chain that actively hates me."

"You're thinking about this wrong," Jason said, "It's not about multiple suppliers for the same thing. That's just overhead. It's about critical path components."

Jason moved closer to the screen, pointing at entries. "See these three suppliers? All same geographic region, same shipping port. One port strike, you're down for all three. That's a single point of failure."

Tim jotted down a few notes. He tapped his pen, before saying, "So geographic diversity—"

Jason cut him off finishing his thought, "Geographic diversity, financial stability check, capacity buffer analysis. This supplier? 95% capacity utilization. No buffer. If you need more or their other clients need more, they can't deliver. This one? Overleveraged. They'll disrupt your supply chain when they hit cash flow problems. This one's actually fine."

Then Jason full on took control of the screen and pulled up Excel. Using shortcuts Tim didn’t even know about, Jason constructed a highlevel matrix. Tim ditched his notepad, Jason was just giving him everything he would want to write down here.

He's building a decision framework. In real time. Who does that?

Tim read over his shoulder the various columns as Jason worked. Every few minutes he'd start to ask a clarifying question. 

"So you're saying we weigh capacity utilization higher than geographic location?"

"For critical components, yeah. Doesn't matter where they are if they can't deliver volume when you need it."

"And the financial stability score—you're pulling that from their debt-to-equity ratio?"

"Debt-to-equity, current ratio, and cash flow trends. Three red flags and they're out."

"What about the lead time buffer? How did you calculate—"

"Historical delivery variance plus 15%. Accounts for shipping delays, customs, weather. Anything less and you're gambling."

Tim decided to remain silent, and let Jason finish.

He's not even wasting time thinking about it. 

"There." Jason was done. "Decision matrix. You're welcome. Can I go now?"

Tim was staring at the comprehensive framework Jason had built. "This is... extensive."

"It's basic risk management. Even I can do this much. Are we done?"

I CAN'T do this, what do you mean when you say "Even I can do this"?

"How do you know all this?" Tim asked.

"Books exist, Tim. I can read." The same excuse as last time.

I'm not buying it anymore. Books don't teach you to build supplier scorecards from muscle memory.

"We done?"

Tim needed more information, he needed to see what Jason was really hiding.

Tim cleared his throat, "Ok… but if you have time. I have another thing we could go over? I’ll owe you this time." 

Jason considered the question, squinting as Tim, then he just said, "I need an equipment upgrade. My grapple needs respecing, the trajectory and pull are off for my weight."

Tim took hold of the inch Jason gave in.

"Great! Our marketing team wants to target everyone, which means we'll reach no one effectively. They've got this sprawling campaign proposal—enterprise clients, small businesses, government contracts, individual consumers—all with the same messaging. I keep telling them we need to focus, but every time I push back, they come back with more market research showing 'untapped potential' in seventeen different demographics. It's like they think having more targets makes us more likely to hit something instead of just spreading ourselves so thin we—"

"Fine, Show me."

Tim smiled and pulled up the marketing plan. Jason looked at it for maybe two minutes, immediately identifying the core problem and the obvious solution. He jumped up to the whiteboard and started outlining the core issues.

"Pick one customer segment. Build everything around solving their specific problem better than anyone else. Your target is mid-size manufacturers who want automation but can't afford enterprise solutions. Your message is 'enterprise capabilities at mid-market prices.' Simple. Clear. Focused. There. Done. Equipment?"

Tim stared at the whiteboard. Processing everything Jason explained like it was common sense.

"You just solved a problem my marketing team has been working on for six weeks." Tim couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice.

Jason had to understand how ridiculous this was. Didn't he?

"Your marketing team is overthinking it. It's not complicated. Equipment?"

Stop saying it's not complicated. It's complicated for everyone except apparently you.

Tim knew better than to push Jason for any more answers. He finally relented.

"I'll have it sent to your safehouse."

Jason left so fast he was practically running.

Tim sat back in his chair, reviewing his notes, analyzing what had just happened.

Jason has operational expertise. Deep operational expertise. The kind that comes from running complex organizations under pressure. The kind that I desperately need and don't have.

And Jason just proved—twice now—that he can solve problems in minutes that take me weeks.

Tim had no idea what to do with this information.

Tim was reviewing the decision matrix Jason had built—the one he'd constructed in fifteen minutes from memory, the one that would have taken Tim's team weeks to develop—and he felt a new frustration bubbling up.

"It's basic risk management. Even I can do this much."

"You're overthinking it."

"It's not complicated."

Tim's jaw tightened. Jason helped him, sure, but why was it accompanied with that dismissive tone. That implication that Tim was making simple things difficult. That anyone with half a brain could see what Tim had been struggling with for weeks.

It's infuriating. He acts like I'm an idiot for not seeing it immediately. Like the answer was just sitting there, obvious, and I was too stupid to—

Tim stopped. His hand froze over the keyboard.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

A memory surfaced. Years ago. Titans tower. Kon hovering beside him, arms crossed, frustration written all over his face.

"Tim, I don't understand what you're saying. Can you just explain it normally?"

"It's not that hard, Kon. It's basic deductive reasoning. You just follow the evidence chain—A connects to B, B implies C, C contradicts D, so D must be false, which means—"

"You lost me at 'evidence chain.'"

"How? It's simple logic."

Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit.

Another memory. Huntress. That mission in Blüdhaven where they'd been tracking a smuggling ring.

"The pattern's obvious. They're using the fishing boats as cover, rotating schedules to avoid Coast Guard patrols, with the warehouse on pier seven as the distribution hub. We hit the hub during the Tuesday night shipment when their security is lightest."

"How the hell did you get all that from a shipping manifest and two photographs?"

"It's just pattern recognition. Anyone could see it."

"Tim. Nobody else saw it. That's why we needed you."

"Well... it's not complicated once you know what to look for."

Tim stared at the wall of his office, something cold settling in his stomach.

That's what I sound like. That's EXACTLY what I sound like.

"It's not complicated." "It's basic." "Anyone could see it."

I'm Jason. Jason is me. We're the same insufferable asshole in different fonts.

“Nooooooo,”

He thought about Kon's face during those early missions. The way his shoulders would tense when Tim rattled off deductions. The flicker of something—frustration? Inadequacy?—that Kon always tried to hide behind jokes and bravado.

Kon felt like this. Every time I explained something "simple." He felt exactly like this.

And I never noticed. I never even THOUGHT about it. I just assumed everyone's brain worked like mine and they were being slow on purpose.

He thought about Stephanie, back when she was Spoiler, asking him to slow down and explain. And Tim, impatient, saying "We don't have time, just trust me" and watching her jaw tighten.

Steph. I did this to her constantly. No wonder she got so frustrated with me.

He thought about Cassie, about Bart, about every teammate who'd ever looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language while Tim insisted he was speaking plain English.

They ALL felt like this. Every time I made it sound easy. Every time I acted like seeing the pattern was obvious. They felt stupid. Slow. Frustrated.

Because of ME.

Tim dropped his head into his hands.

I was such an asshole. I was SUCH an asshole. For YEARS.

He'd never meant it that way. He genuinely hadn't understood why others couldn't see what he saw. The connections, the patterns, the logical chains—they were just there, visible, obvious. Explaining them felt like explaining why the sky was blue. How do you explain something that just... is?

But it wasn't obvious. Not to them. It was only obvious to me because my brain works differently. And instead of recognizing that, I made them feel stupid for not keeping up.

Is that what Jason's doing? Does he genuinely not understand why I can't see what he sees? Does his brain just... work that way?

And I've been on the other side this whole time, never realizing that I did the exact same thing to everyone around me for years.

Tim laughed—a short, hysterical sound that bounced off the walls of his empty office at 2 AM.

Karma. This is karma. The universe is punishing me for every "it's not complicated" I ever inflicted on my friends.

I DESERVE this. I absolutely deserve this.

He pulled out his phone, scrolled to Kon's contact. Stared at it for a long moment.

I should apologize. For every time I made him feel slow. For every "it's not that hard" that was actually "why can't you be as smart as me."

I should apologize to ALL of them. Kon. Steph. Cassie. Bart. Everyone I ever made feel stupid because I couldn't be bothered to explain things at their pace.

The list is so long. I'm going to be apologizing for YEARS.

He put the phone down. That was a conversation for another day. A lot of conversations, actually.

But right now, sitting in his office with Jason's decision matrix glowing on his screen, Tim finally understood something important.

Jason's not being dismissive. He's being ME. And I never realized how much that sucked until I was on the receiving end.

This is what everyone felt. This is what I put them through. For YEARS.

I'm a terrible person. I'm a terrible friend. I'm a Jason—

Okay. Okay. Calm down. Spiraling won't help.

The point is: I get it now. I finally get it.

The next time Jason said "you're overthinking it," Tim wouldn't get frustrated.

He'd just remember Kon's face. And try to extend the grace he wished he'd given his friends all those years ago.

We're all just doing our best with the brains we have. Some of us see patterns. Some of us see solutions. Some of us see people.

The trick is recognizing that none of those things are "obvious" to everyone else.

And maybe—MAYBE—being a little less of an insufferable asshole about it.

Tim turned back to the decision matrix and started implementing Jason's recommendations.

It wasn't complicated.

But he finally understood why that didn't make it easy.

"I need access to the Batcomputer's satellite network," Jason said, over the phone.

Jason had somehow trained Tim to answer every “blocked number” call. But he was glad when it ended up being Jason.

"Perfect timing!” and it was true. 

“Our R&D division isn't collaborating effectively. We've got three major projects running simultaneously—renewable energy storage, next-gen semiconductors, and automation systems—and each team is siloed in their own department. Information isn't flowing. The battery team made a breakthrough on energy density three weeks ago that could revolutionize our automation division's power requirements, but they didn't even know about it until yesterday. And when I tried to set up cross-departmental meetings, everyone complained about having too many managers to report to and not enough time for actual work. It's like watching three brilliant teams work in parallel universes that never intersect, and I—"

Tim sent Jason the file, and was still going on about his approach and solutions when Jason interrupted.

"Too many layers in your org chart. Information gets lost traveling up and down. Flatten it. Create cross-functional project teams instead of department silos. Pod structure with direct reporting to product VP. Fewer layers, faster decisions, better collaboration. There. Done. Satellite access?"

Wasn't that a little extreme? Especially when Jason wouldn't have to see the consequences if this didn't work?

"You just restructured our entire R&D in minutes—"

Tim wasn't trying to sound annoyed, but maybe Jason didn't want to help anymore and was trying to sabotage him.

No. Stop. That's paranoid. Jason's advice has been right every single time. Trust the pattern.

"It wasn't complicated. Satellite access or not?"

Tim sent the satellite access. But he also looked into restructuring.

-

A week into the restructuring, Tim caught himself staring out the window instead of refreshing his email for the fifteenth time. His hand had drifted toward his phone out of habit, thumb hovering over the screen, and then—

Wait. What was I checking for?

Nothing. There was nothing urgent. Jason had solved the supplier crisis on Tuesday. The marketing pivot was already in motion. The R&D restructuring was proceeding smoothly. For the first time in months, Tim's inbox wasn't a war zone.

Huh.

He put the phone down.

This is... weird.

Jason needed to borrow the WE jet for a thing he wasn't going to explain. Tim was happy to oblige.

"Great," Tim said. "Help me evaluate this acquisition target first—"

I'm getting better at this. Making it transactional. Fair exchange. He doesn't feel trapped if he's getting something too.

"Revenue's growing but receivables are growing faster. They're booking sales but not collecting. Inventory turnover's slowing. They're burning cash despite 'profitable' operations. Don't acquire. They'll restate earnings within six months. Jet?"

He didn't even open all the files. He scanned the summary page for maybe ninety seconds.

"How did you see that so fast—"

"Cash flow statement. Can I have the jet now or not?"

Tim authorized the jet usage, although the pilot reported back that Jason didn't make a round trip. Jason was gone—somewhere in Europe, according to the flight plan—and Tim didn't know when he'd be back.

That's fine. He'll be back. He always comes back.

Right?

A week later, Tim was sitting in his office, and he realized he'd been staring at the same paragraph of a report for ten minutes. Not because it was complicated—because his brain had simply... wandered.

Am I having a stroke? Is this what a stroke feels like? Random brain wandering?

He checked his pulse. Normal. Checked his pupils in his phone camera. Equal and reactive.

Not a stroke. Just... nothing to do.

The realization was so foreign it took him a moment to identify the sensation.

I'm bored.

I'm actually bored.

When was the last time I was BORED?

His inbox had twelve emails. Twelve. That was... nothing. That was a slow Tuesday morning, not an entire day's worth of work.

The supplier issues Jason had helped with? Resolved. The marketing strategy? Implemented and running smoothly. The R&D restructuring? Proceeding ahead of schedule.

Tim pulled up his project management dashboard. Green across the board. No fires. No emergencies. No crises requiring his immediate attention.

What am I supposed to do with this?

He stood up, paced to the window, looked out at Gotham's skyline. It was 2 PM on a Thursday and he had... nothing urgent to do.

This is good, right? This is what success looks like. Systems running smoothly without constant intervention. So why does it feel wrong?

Maybe he could finish up reviewing reports from home? Or grab one of Alfred's cookies.

Actually... the manor sounded good right now.

Tim didn't realize how often he'd been going to the manor until Alfred pointed it out.

"Master Timothy." Alfred set down a cup of tea on the side table. "You've been at the manor three times this week."

Tim looked up from the couch in the den, where he'd sprawled with his laptop two hours ago. "Is that... bad?"

"Not at all, sir. Merely unusual." Alfred's eyes crinkled slightly. "You typically communicate your familial obligations via text message from your office."

Ouch. Fair, but ouch.

"I just... didn't have anything urgent." Tim shrugged, feeling oddly defensive. "Thought I'd work from here for a change."

"Of course, sir." Alfred smiled knowingly. "Master Bruce is in the study, if you wish to speak with him."

Tim found himself nodding before he consciously decided to.

Bruce looked up when Tim knocked, surprise flickering across his face before settling into something warmer.

"Tim. Didn't expect to see you today."

"Yeah, I just..." Tim dropped into the chair across from Bruce's desk. "Thought I'd work from here."

Bruce closed his laptop, giving Tim his full attention. Uh oh. That's never a good sign.

"Everything alright?"

"Fine. Yeah. Everything's fine." Tim fidgeted with his phone. "Actually, it's weird. I'm... bored."

Bruce's eyebrows rose slightly. "Bored?"

Tim squirmed, but it sounded strange even to his own ears. "I have work to do, obviously. But nothing's urgent. Nothing's on fire. It's just... quiet."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment, and Tim braced himself for analysis, for questions, for Bruce to start detective-ing his way through Tim's psyche.

Instead, Bruce smiled. Actually smiled—warm and genuine in a way that made Tim's chest feel tight.

"That's good, Tim. That's really good."

"Huh? It is?" Tim shifted in his seat. 

"It feels weird because you're not used to it." Bruce leaned back in his chair, looking more relaxed than Tim had seen him in months. 

"I guess."

"Enjoy it, Tim." Bruce reopened his laptop, but his expression stayed warm. "You shouldn’t be running yourself ragged every minute of the day."

Tim nodded slowly. Bruce seemed... pleased. Actually pleased that Tim was bored and working from the manor instead of running himself ragged at WE.

Huh.

He left Bruce's study feeling oddly lighter. Worked through his emails—still only twelve—and then found himself watching Damian and Dick argue about something in the hallway, and then somehow it was 7 PM and Alfred was announcing dinner.

How did that happen? Where did the time go?

Another week later, Tim was in his bedroom at the manor, working through supplier contracts. Or trying to. He'd read the same clause four times and still couldn't remember what it said.

He had already checked on the numbers he had his people do since not acquiring the company. He decided to let Jason know his analysis was right on. Again.

Tim sent him a text: You were right. Again. It's getting creepy.

After 20 minutes passed from sending the text, Tim assumed he was ignoring him. Because why would Jason acknowledge Tim’s manipulative texts? Tim sighed. His eyes felt heavy. His neck ached from hunching over the laptop. When was the last time he'd slept? Really slept, not just passed out from exhaustion?

Maybe I should take a break.

He tried to focus on the screen again. The words blurred together.

When did I get so tired?

The thing was, he wasn't crisis-tired. He wasn't running-on-fumes-and-caffeine-for-three-days tired. He was just... normally tired. Like a normal person who'd had a normal workday and could take a normal break.

I could just... close my eyes for twenty minutes. Power nap. Totally reasonable.

Tim moved to the bed before he could talk himself out of it.

Just twenty minutes. Then I'll finish the contracts.

He closed his eyes.

Tim woke up to his phone buzzing.

For a moment, he was completely disoriented. Where was he? What time was it? Why was he—

I fell asleep. I took a nap. Voluntarily. In the middle of the day.

He grabbed his phone, heart racing, expecting seventeen missed calls and an emergency.

One text from Dick: Wanna grab dinner later?

That was it. No emergencies. No fires. No crises requiring his immediate attention.

He checked the time. He'd been asleep for two hours. TWO HOURS. In the middle of the afternoon. And the world hadn't ended.

Tim sat up slowly, his mind struggling to process this.

I took a nap. On purpose. And nothing went wrong.

His laptop screen had gone dark. The contracts were still unfinished. But his inbox showed only three new emails, all routine.

I don't know what to do with this. I don't know how to be a person who naps.

He texted Dick back: Sure. 7 PM?

Then he went back to the contracts. Finished them in thirty minutes—faster and clearer than he'd been working before the nap.

Huh. Maybe rest actually helps. Who knew?

The quiet lasted nearly 3 months. 

Then everything went wrong at once.

Marshall from contracts called at 9 AM. "Mr. Drake-Wayne, we have a situation with the factory in Michigan."

Tim was already pulling up files before Marshall finished explaining. A whistleblower complaint. Allegations of safety violations, falsified reports, management covering up problems.

"Send me everything. I'll review it."

He hung up and stared at the preliminary report. This was... complicated. The whistleblower could be legitimate. Or she could be covering her own negligence. The manager's response seemed defensive, but that could mean guilt or just frustration at being accused.

Tim's brain tried to break it down. Built a timeline. Cross-referenced employee statements. Checked financial records for suspicious patterns.

What would Jason look for? What pattern am I missing?

Three hours later, he had notes covering two whiteboards and no clear answer.

Jason would see this immediately. He'd look at it for five minutes and know exactly who was lying and why. But Jason's not here.

Tim took a deep breath and forced himself to focus before he fell into a panic. He couldn’t afford the time to panic right now.

By noon, a major client called threatening to pull their contract over delivery delays. The Nevada facility hit unexpected permitting issues that would delay their Q2 timeline. Two key executives got into a public argument during a video conference that went viral internally.

Tim's inbox exploded from twelve emails to seventy-three. His phone wouldn't stop ringing. His project dashboard turned from green to red so fast he got dizzy looking at it.

This is fine. I can handle this. I've handled worse.

He pulled up Jason's frameworks. The decision matrices. The risk assessment models. Started applying them to each problem systematically.

Client issue: 

• Geographic diversity. 
• They're all using the same shipping routes. 
• Reroute through Baltimore. 
• Adjust delivery windows.

Nevada permitting: 

• Check for financial incentives. 
• Someone's blocking this for a reason. 
• Follow the money.

Executive conflict: 

• Organizational structure problem. 
• Too many overlapping responsibilities. 
• Clarify roles or separate them entirely.

The frameworks worked. The patterns proved true. They gave him structure, direction, a way to think through the chaos.

But it took him hours to do what Jason would have done in minutes. Hours of cross-referencing and double-checking and second-guessing himself because what if he missed something? What if the pattern he saw wasn't really there?

I'm not Jason. I can't see patterns the way he does. I can use his methods but I don't have his instincts.

By 6 PM, he'd managed the client issue and identified a workaround for Nevada. The executive conflict would need HR intervention, but he had a plan. The whistleblower situation sat on his desk, still unresolved. Still complicated. Still making his chest feel tight every time he looked at it.

If I fire the manager and she's innocent, I've destroyed someone's career. If I dismiss the complaint and she's right, I've covered up safety violations. I need more data. More information. More time to analyze—

“Everything alright, Tim?”

Tim nearly jumped out of his seat, clutching his chest, “Bruce! I- I’m fine. Didn’t see you come in.”

“You staying late tonight?” 

Bruce had a complicated expression on. He was analyzing Tim.

“Yeah, I just have a few fires to put out by close of business.”

“Oh? Need anything?” 

Bruce threw him a life line.

Yes. “No, I’m managing.”

Tim uses dodge. It was very effective.

Bruce nodded, not pushing, but he still said, “Wasn’t just the other week you were bored? What happened to that?”

Everything. Everything changed. The systems Jason built are still working but I don't know how to maintain them without him. I can use his frameworks but I can't see what he sees. I'm trying to be him and I'm failing and everything's falling apart and—

Tim looked back to the problems piling up on his plate, “Nothing’s changed… just the random emergencies that happen every now and then.”

He looked at the whistleblower file again. Tried to see the pattern.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“Thanks, B. I will.” The lie effortlessly flowed. 

Bruce smiled and turned to leave Tim alone. At least the surprise visit broke his spiral before another panic attack. That was the last thing he needed. Another flaw for Bruce to categorize and give him a  reason to get rid of him.

Tim shook his head free of useless thoughts. Trying to focus on one fire at a time.

Manager's explanation doesn't match witness statements. But which witnesses are reliable? The HR response was too fast—defensive? Or just efficient? Financial records show bonuses, but are they legitimate performance bonuses or payoffs? Worker complaints disappeared—covered up or resolved?

His brain spun faster, connecting dots, questioning connections, building theories and tearing them down.

Jason would know. Jason would look at this for five minutes and just KNOW.

Tim's chest felt tight. His breathing was coming faster.

Stop. Stop spiraling. You can figure this out. You found Bruce lost in time. You can handle one corporate investigation.

Except he couldn't. Not without more data. Not without more time. Not without his older bro… without a good ally’s help.

The Batcave was busy that night—unusual for a Tuesday. Dick was suiting up for patrol. Damian was checking his gear with that intense focus he got before going out. Cass was already gone, disappeared into Gotham's shadows the way only she could.

Tim was reviewing patrol routes with Oracle when she said it.

"I'm adjusting the grid. We don't need to cover Crime Alley anymore—Hood's back on his usual patrol."

Tim's hands froze over his console.

“What- Jason’s in Gotham? When did that happen?” Tim tried not to sound too upset. But he could hear a whine in his voice. Yikes.

“It’s been 3 days. Maybe longer. I wouldn’t put it past him to lie about how long he’s been back for and avoid us for a few days.”

Jason's back. Jason's in Gotham. Jason's been back for three days and didn't tell me.

"Thanks," he managed to say, voice level.

Three days. He's been here for three days. Why didn't he call? Why didn't he—

"Red Robin?" Oracle's voice carried concern. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just—I need to check something." Tim was already moving, heading for his locker. "I'll catch up with the patrol routes later."

He grabbed the whistleblower file from where he'd brought it to the Cave—because of course he'd brought work to the Cave, because he couldn't stop thinking about it. Shoved it into a case file folder.

Dick looked up from checking his escrima sticks. "Tim? Where are you going?"

"Crime Alley. Need to talk to Hood about something."

"Whoa Tim, hold on. Best to let him settle in. Don’t poke the bear right when he gets back."

"No." Tim was already pulling on his suit, movements sharp and efficient. "It can't wait."

Three days. He's been here for three days and every night I've been staring at this file, spinning in circles, and he was RIGHT HERE.

Damian snorted. "Drake’s going to get himself killed."

"Shut up, Damian." Tim secured his cape, grabbed his bo staff. "Oracle, where did you see Hood last?"

"... at the eastern edge of Crime Alley. Near the old factory district. Stay on comms if you need backup."

Tim was moving before she finished the sentence, heading for his bike.

Dick called after him. "Tim, seriously, what's going on?"

What's going on is I'm drowning. What's going on is I’ve taken naps and thought I was fine and now I can't solve a simple investigation without spiraling. What's going on is Jason's been back for three days and didn't tell me and I don't know if that means he's done with this, done with me—

"I'll be back later." Tim said. 

He left the Cave on his bike, the whistleblower file secure in his pack, his chest still tight but at least now he had direction.

Find Jason. Get help. Solve the problem. Everything will be fine once I find Jason. Please let him still want to help. Please let him not be done with this.

Please.

Red Robin found Red Hood on a rooftop in Crime Alley just after 2 AM.

Jason was crouched at the edge, watching the street below, perfectly still. He didn't look up when Tim landed.

Tim kept his voice level. Professional. Not desperate. Definitely not desperate. He held out the file. "This factory whistleblower—legitimate or covering her own negligence?"

Jason took the file without a word.

Tim watched him read. Watched those micro-movements that meant Jason's brain was processing—the slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers tapped against the file edge.

Please see it. Please see the pattern I'm missing. Please—

"She's legitimate. Floor manager's skimming materials and forcing workers to falsify safety logs. Here's everyone involved, everyone coerced, everyone complicit. Your HR director's either incompetent or taking bribes." Jason stood, handing the file back. "Fire him. Check his financials. You'll find the smoking gun."

The relief hit Tim so hard he almost staggered.

She's legitimate. I can act. I can make a decision. I'm not going to ruin an innocent person's career or cover up safety violations because I know now, I KNOW— How did Jason know though?

"How did you figure out the HR director is taking bribes?"

Tim needed to understand. Needed to see how Jason's brain had made that leap when Tim had spent an hour staring at the HR response trying to decide if it was suspicious or just efficient.

"Because nobody's that incompetent by accident. It's either malice or stupidity, and stupid doesn't usually have a second mortgage on a house in the Hamptons." Jason prepared to grapple away. "Later, Replacement."

Wait. Don't go. I have seventeen other problems and I need—

But Tim caught himself. Jason had already helped. Had solved the problem that had been eating at Tim for hours. He couldn't just... keep asking.

You're not his responsibility. This was already pushing it, hunting him down in the middle of patrol.

Back at the Nest, Tim opened his laptop and started working through the whistleblower situation. Following Jason's analysis. Preparing the case against the HR director.

His hands had stopped shaking.

His breathing was steady.

The problems were still there—the client, the Nevada facility, the logistics constraints—but they felt manageable now. Solvable. Like he could actually handle them instead of drowning in analysis paralysis.

Because Jason's back. Because I'm not alone anymore.

It was 4 AM when he finally sent the emails. When he finally had a plan for the morning. When he finally felt like he could sleep.

Three days later, Tim sat in his office reviewing the evidence they'd compiled. Jason had been right—devastatingly, precisely right. The HR director's financials told the whole story. A second mortgage he shouldn't have been able to afford. Payments from shell companies that traced back to the floor manager. A pattern of ignored complaints that suddenly made perfect sense.

Tim signed the termination papers with a hand that didn't shake. Made the calls that needed to be made. Set the investigation in motion that would protect the whistleblower and root out everyone involved.

I couldn't have done this without Jason. Would have second-guessed myself into paralysis. Would have spent another week analyzing and re-analyzing until the trail went cold.

But Jason saw it in five minutes. Five minutes.

He pulled out his phone, staring at the screen for a long moment before typing.

Tim: You diagnosed corporate corruption from a ten-page report. That's actually terrifying.

He hit send and immediately felt like an idiot.

Great opening, Drake. "You're terrifying." That's definitely going to make him want to keep helping you. Why not just send "please never speak to me again" while you're at it?

His phone buzzed.

Jason: I diagnose actual corruption every night in Crime Alley. Your corporate version is just corruption with better suits and worse coffee.

Tim felt relief flood through him so fast he almost laughed.

Okay. Good. He's being normal Jason about it. Crisis averted... Why is he dragging our coffee?

Tim: Our coffee is great?

He added the question mark because honestly, he wasn't sure anymore. The coffee is fine. Jason's just being dramatic.

Jason: Your corporate coffee is sadness in a cup. My dealers have better coffee. We steal it from the good places.

Tim stared at his phone.

Jason's drug dealers have better coffee than Wayne Enterprises.

JASON'S DRUG DEALERS HAVE BETTER COFFEE THAN WAYNE ENTERPRISES.

We're a Fortune 500 company. We have a corporate budget. We have procurement specialists. We have RESOURCES.

And we're being out-caffeinated by Crime Alley drug dealers who STEAL their coffee.

Tim looked at his own coffee cup—the WE logo printed cheerfully on the side, the contents inside cold and definitely kind of sad-looking—and had to accept that Jason might have a point.

This is humbling. This is a deeply humbling moment. I'm being schooled on beverage quality by my brother who runs a criminal empire. I should probably reevaluate some of my life choices.

Tim: I can't believe I'm getting coffee advice from a crime lord.

Because what else could he say? "You're right, your criminal organization has superior procurement strategies"? "Please teach me your ways, oh caffeinated one"?

This is my life now. Taking business advice from Jason is one thing. But COFFEE advice? From someone who definitely uses intimidation tactics to acquire premium beans?

Although... if the intimidation tactics work...

No. Bad Tim. We don't threaten coffee suppliers. That's not how legitimate businesses operate.

Jason: You're getting ALL your advice from a crime lord. That's your dumb mistake.

Tim stopped laughing. He read the message again. Then again.

All your advice.

Not just coffee. Not just this whistleblower situation. Everything. The suppliers, the marketing strategy, the R&D restructuring, the acquisition analysis. Every crisis that Jason had walked him through like it was simple.

All of it. I've been getting ALL my business advice from a crime lord.

Tim sat back in his chair, phone still in his hand, something shifting in his understanding.

How is Jason this good at this? Where did he even LEARN this stuff?

Jason built a criminal empire. He runs it. Successfully. For years. And nobody ever talks about that. Was Tim the only one who actually acknowledged the skills that went into his operations??? He couldn’t be right? Tim looked at his phone, at Jason's last message.

"That's your dumb mistake."

Was it though? Was it really a mistake?

Jason had solved every problem Tim brought him. Had literally diagnosed corporate corruption from a ten-page report while probably also planning his nightly patrol route and mentally organizing his criminal empire's quarterly projections.

That's not normal. That's not "I read some books" normal. 

Who is Jason Todd, really? Under the anger and the violence and the Red Hood persona? Who is he when he's solving my supply chain problems? And why doesn't anyone else see it?

Tim looked at his phone again, at the conversation that had started with coffee criticism and ended with an accidental confession. Tim looked at his coffee cup one more time.

First though, I need to give Jason better coffee so that he’ll never dare say something like Timothy Drake-Wayne having sub-par coffee.

A few weeks later, Tim's phone buzzed at 3:47 AM.

He didn't need to check the caller ID. Only one person called at this hour, and only one person had a number that displayed as a string of zeros.

"Detective." Ra's al Ghul's voice was smooth, unhurried. Like they had all the time in the world. Which, Tim supposed, Ra's did.

"Ra's." Tim set down his case file and leaned back in his chair. The Nest was quiet around him, monitors casting blue light across the walls. "It's been a while."

"Yes… And I see that you've been busy. Wayne Enterprises quarterly reports show a 12% increase in operational efficiency. Impressive, for someone so young."

Of course he's been tracking WE's performance. Of course he has. Because that's not creepy at all. Just a six-hundred-year-old assassin casually monitoring my company's SEC filings.

"I manage."

"Indeed you do." There was a smile in Ra's voice. "Shall we play?"

Tim closed his eyes, visualizing the board. They'd been doing this for years now—mental chess, no physical pieces, just two minds holding sixty-four squares and thirty-two pieces in perfect clarity.

This is my life. Playing chess with immortal murderers at 4 AM because I can't sleep. Totally normal. Completely fine.

"White or black?"

"I believe it's my turn to open. Pawn to e4."

Tim saw it in his mind. The classic King's Pawn opening.

"Pawn to e5."

"Knight to f3."

Targeting my pawn. Standard.

"Knight to c6. Defending."

"Bishop to c4."

The Italian Game. He's feeling traditional tonight.

"Bishop to c5."

They moved through the opening in comfortable silence, pieces dancing across the board in Tim's mind. Ra's played aggressively, as always—controlled aggression, every piece positioned with purpose.

"Pawn to c3," Ra's said. "Preparing to control the center."

"Pawn to d6. Solid development."

Tim hesitated. He'd been thinking about this for weeks. Turning it over in his mind. And Ra's, for all his faults—for all his murders and manipulations and centuries of calculated evil—understood people in ways most didn't.

Just ask. The worst he can do is mock you. And possibly try to kill you. Again. But mostly the mocking.

"I have a question," Tim said. "Knight to f6."

"Pawn to d3. Protecting." Ra's paused. "You rarely ask questions, Detective. You prefer to find answers yourself."

"This one's... different." Tim took a breath. "What do you think of Jason Todd?"

Silence on the other end of the line. Not the dangerous kind—the considering kind. Ra's was actually thinking about it.

Great. Now the immortal assassin is intrigued. This can only end well.

"An interesting subject to raise. Castle kingside."

Tim visualized the move. Ra's king tucked safely behind a wall of pawns, rook sliding into play.

"Castle kingside," Tim echoed, matching the move. "You've had dealings with him. I want your perspective."

"Jason Todd." Ra's said the name like he was tasting it. "Bishop to b3. Repositioning… He was a mystery to me, initially. Dead then alive again. Returned from beyond in a way that should not have been possible without the Pit… your move."

He was obsessed with that. The impossibility of Jason's resurrection. Spent years trying to figure it out. Welcome to the club, Ra's. None of us understand Jason.

Tim cleared his throat, "Pawn to a6. Preparing expansion."

"When I encountered him in the beginning, I found him... remarkable." Ra's voice carried something that might have been respect. "Knight to g5. Aggressive repositioning. As a fighter, he exceeded my expectations. More talented than Batman, if you can believe it. Raw, yes. Undisciplined in some ways. But the potential—the sheer natural ability—was extraordinary."

Tim's chest tightened.

More talented than Bruce. Ra's al Ghul thinks Jason is more talented than Bruce. The Demon's Head, who's fought warriors for six centuries, thinks Jason is BETTER than Batman.

And Jason just... what? Runs around Crime Alley shooting kneecaps? With THAT kind of potential?

"Pawn to h6. Challenging your knight."

"Knight to h3. Retreating for now." Ra's was quiet for a moment. "I saw great things in him. I tried, multiple times, to recruit him. To shape that potential into something magnificent. He could have been my heir, Timothy. My true successor. The perfect weapon."

"But?"

"But he disappointed me." Ra's voice cooled. "He refused. Repeatedly. Violently. He let his rage control his actions. Made too many mistakes in pursuit of resolving his past trauma. He became nothing more than a talented person without intelligence and without vision."

Tim could hear the disappointment in his voice.

"Bishop to b6. Developing."

Join the club. Everyone's disappointed in Jason. Bruce is disappointed. Dick is disappointed. Ra's is disappointed. Jason probably wakes up every morning to a chorus of cosmic disappointment.

"Queen to f3," Ra's sighed. "Building pressure. So much potential, wasted on sentiment. On his obsession with Batman's approval. On that absurd moral code he adopted to please him but clearly doesn't care."

Tim moved a piece, buying time to think. "Queen to e7. Defending."

Jason was clearly talented, anyone could see that… but he wasn't here to ask about Jason's battle prowess.

"What about outside of fighting?" Tim asked carefully. "Outside of... combat potential. What do you think of him?"

Ra's laughed—a short, dismissive sound. "Rook to e1. Outside of combat? He's practically useless."

Useless. Ra's al Ghul thinks Jason is useless.

"Clarify."

"He has no head for strategy beyond the tactical. No patience for long-term planning. No understanding of systems, people, the machinery that actually moves the world." Ra's voice dripped condescension. "He's a blunt instrument, Timothy. Effective within his narrow scope, but fundamentally limited. Nowhere near your level."

Nowhere near my level.

Tim felt something click into place. A piece of the puzzle he'd been struggling with for months.

Ra's al Ghul—one of the most dangerous minds on the planet—thinks Jason is just a fighter. Just muscle. Just potential wasted. Ra's has no idea. No one has any idea.

"Bishop to e6. Blocking."

Then it clicked.

Holy shit. SHIT. Jason's been playing everyone. He's been holding his cards so close that even Ra's al Ghul—SIX HUNDRED YEARS of reading people—completely missed it. Jason let the Demon's Head himself believe he was nothing but a weapon.

That's not insecurity. That's not hiding. That's STRATEGY. That's keeping secret aces that nobody knows about.

That's... actually terrifying. In a good way? In a "my brother is apparently a secret genius" way?

"You disagree, Detective?" Ra's sounded amused. "Knight takes e6."

"Queen takes knight on e6." Tim's mind was racing now, chess almost an afterthought. "No. Just... processing."

How long has Jason been doing this? Years? Since he came back? Since before he died?

Everyone sees Red Hood. The angry one. The violent one. The disappointment. And Jason just... lets them. Encourages it, even. Because as long as everyone thinks he's just muscle, nobody sees him coming.

Damn. That's brilliant. That's INSANE, but it's brilliant.

"Pawn to f4. Opening lines." Ra's voice sharpened slightly. "You're distracted. Why the sudden interest in my opinion of Jason Todd?"

Abort. Change the subject. Don't let him see. If Ra's figures out what Jason can actually do, he'll try to recruit him again. More aggressively this time. Can't let that happen. Won't let that happen.

"Rook to f8. Activating." Tim forced his voice casual. "No particular reason. He's been around more lately. I was curious if you'd noticed any changes."

"Mmm." Ra's didn't sound convinced. "Queen to h5. Check. You're lying, Timothy. You never ask questions without purpose."

"King to f7. Escaping." Tim's heart was beating faster. "Maybe I'm just making conversation."

"You don't make conversation. You gather intelligence." Ra's moved. "Queen to h7. Maintaining pressure. What has Jason done to warrant your attention?"

Don't tell him. Don't give him ammunition. Don't let him know what Jason can actually do. Keep your mouth shut, Drake. For once in your life, don't explain your reasoning.

"Nothing specific. Queen to d4. Check."

"King to g1. Escaping. You're deflecting badly. It's unlike you."

"Maybe I'm tired. Rook to f1. Check."

I'm always tired. That's not even a lie. I haven't slept properly in three years. Sleep is for people who don't have to run Fortune 500 companies while also being vigilantes while also playing chess with immortal assassins at 4 AM.

"You're never too tired to lie well." Ra's was quiet for a moment. "King to g2. You've discovered something about him. Something that surprised you, perhaps?"

Yes. I discovered that my brother is a business savvy genius who's been hiding in plain sight for years. That the person everyone dismissed as 'just the violent one' can outthink most of our executives. That Ra's al Ghul himself completely misjudged him.

And I'm not telling you any of that, you ancient creepy bastard.

"Bishop to d7. Repositioning." Tim made his voice bored. "I haven't discovered anything. I'm reevaluating what I think of my family in its current state."

"Your family." Ra's repeated the word with amusement. "Since when is Jason Todd your family?"

"Since always. Rook to b8."

Tim didn't know that the answer would come that easily. Hadn't Jason attacked him? Hadn't Jason pushed everyone away? Did Tim actually think of him as someone to defend even when he would be put at a disadvantage?

"Interesting." Ra's moved. "Queen to f5. You're protective of him. That's new."

Is that how I sound? Or have I always been, and just didn't admit it?

"He's my brother."

"He tried to kill you."

"Family's complicated. Can we finish the game? Queen to e5."

Ra's laughed—that low, genuine sound that always made Tim's skin crawl. "Very well, Detective. Keep your secrets. Queen to d5. Check."

Tim refocused on the board. His position was worse than he'd realized—Ra's had been building an attack while Tim was distracted.

Damn. He played me. Used the conversation to break my concentration while he set up checkmate.

Typical. Even our chess games are psychological warfare.

"King to g8."

"Queen to f7." Ra's voice was silky. "Checkmate in three, I believe."

Tim saw it. Ra's was right. The position was lost.

"I resign."

"A wise choice." Ra's paused. "Whatever you've discovered about Jason Todd, I hope you use it well. He may have disappointed me, but that doesn't mean he's without value. Especially to someone clever enough to see what others miss."

He knows. He doesn't know what, but he knows I found something.

Doesn't matter. He can speculate all he wants. I'm not giving him anything.

"Goodnight, Ra's."

"Goodnight, Detective. Same time next month?"

"If I'm free."

The line went dead.

Tim sat in the dark, phone still in his hand, mind churning.

Jason's been playing everyone. For years. Maybe his whole life.

Ra's al Ghul—one of the smartest, most dangerous people alive—thinks Jason is "practically useless" outside of combat.

And I've watched Jason build supplier frameworks from memory. Diagnose corporate corruption from context clues. Restructure entire divisions in minutes.

He's not hiding because he's insecure. He's hiding because it's strategy. Because nobody sees you coming if they think you're just a weapon.

That's terrifying.

And I've been manipulating him to stay close without even understanding what I was manipulating.

The board meeting was Tim's calculated risk.

Six months of this pattern. Six months of Jason solving problems. Six months of breathing slightly easier. But it was still temporary. Still transactional. Still dependent on Jason needing favors.Tim needed to change that. Needed to make this real…. somehow.

So he'd arranged for the executives to schedule their capacity discussion. Had made sure the problem was real but had no good solutions from his team so far. Had set everything up perfectly.

Jason would be furious. But he'd also solve the problem. And everyone would see what Tim saw—that Jason was brilliant.

And maybe—maybe—if other people saw it too, Jason would be more likely to stay.

"Hey Jason, I need a change in scenery, let's see if one of these conference rooms are open."

After going through their typical song and dance, Jason was waiting to see the numbers and then… people started to come into the conference room. They were setting up for an official meeting. And Jason glared at Tim, who just started introducing him.

“This is Jason Wayne, my brother. He’ll be sitting in on this meeting.”

While everyone was getting situated, Jason breathed under his breath, “You’re dead, Replacement.”

"Just this once," Tim said. "They've been working on this capacity problem for three months and getting nowhere. I need a fresh perspective. You would never have agreed if you knew."

So there they were, sitting in a conference room with a dozen executives in expensive suits, listening to them drone on about manufacturing capacity constraints and distribution efficiency and complex analytical frameworks.

A knock at the door paused the speaker, the door opened and Fox walked in followed by Bruce.

"Our meeting finished early. We thought we'd sit in on the tail end of this discussion." Fox announced at the pause in the speaker's presentation.

"Yes, of course! Please join us. We're just discussing our manufacturing capacity challenges in the Northeast region—"

Jason had gone perfectly still. Tim wasn’t sure he was even breathing. Tim risked a glance to see if Jason was giving him a death glare and if he should start running. Then Bruce slid in the seat right in front of Jason. Tim caught Bruce’s eye, and he could tell he was in for a lecture.

I wasn’t planning on this. Bruce probably thinks I’m an idiot right now. Who’d want a resurrected son/crime lord being a part of a big executive meeting? I’m so getting grounded…

Then Tim had to think about Jason next to him… who would also not be happy with Tim.

What’s going to happen now? If Bruce sees… will Jason hate me again?

Tim was afraid. Even though they never said anything about their… arrangement. Tim knew that his fear meant that he saw it as more than the transactional song and dance they’ve been doing. Tim calmed down his breathing when he felt his pulse begin to spike.

Tim watched Jason getting more and more frustrated during the presentation. He wouldn’t blame Jason for not helping given the current situation. Tim might have to figure this one out on his own… He’d do it if it meant that he didn’t ruin whatever relationship they had begun to build.

Twenty minutes in, Jason snapped.

"This is stupid. Just reroute through secondary distribution channels and adjust delivery schedule by six hours. Problem solved." The words seemed to have broken free from Jason.

The room went still.

Tim immediately turned to watch Bruce's expression freeze and then transform into that analytical detective look. Watched his mentor start cataloging, assessing, building a profile like Ra’s had been.

Tim couldn’t bring himself to look at Jason.

"Mr. Wayne—uh, Jason," one executive said carefully, "We've been analyzing this capacity problem for three months with multiple teams. You're suggesting we can solve it by simply—"

"Yes. Reroute through Baltimore and Philly. Adjust delivery windows. Saves 1.2 million annually, reduces carbon footprint by 18%. Basic logistics. Are we done? I have things to do."

Jason was already explaining in a condescending tone—minimizing, making it sound obvious, trying to escape.

"But how did you calculate—"

"Math. Basic optimization. It's not complicated. You're overcomplicating this. Implement the changes, adjust if needed. Done."

Tim held back the teenage urge to roll his eyes. ‘It’S NoT COmpLiCaTED’ - Shut up Jason… sincerely the rest of us in here.

Then Jason turned to Tim. And Tim had to swallow the panic in his throat. What was he-

"We good?" 

That was Jason’s typical response when he finished his end of the bargain. Nothing had gone the way Tim had planned. To showcase his brother’s consulting capacity to the board. To have him explain through his reasoning. Not to have him hurriedly solve a problem like he was escaping a fire.

"Yeah, we're good.” Tim felt bitter towards the universe, “Thanks, Jason."

"Great. I'm leaving." 

Jason left not caring for the dumbfounded members of the meeting staring after him. A few quiet whispers from members as people pulled out their computers and begun looking over the suggestion. Some were running numbers, another was calling members of their team.

And amongst it all, Bruce was staring directly at Tim

Tim kept his poker face on.

Whaaaat? Jason did all of that? I had no idea! Totally innocent here.

The meeting wrapped up in some members of the board deciding to move forward with Jason’s advice. Tim’s phone buzzed and he saw a message from Jason.

Jason: Never again. I don't care what you need. Never. Again.

Tim texted back immediately: Give yourself more credit. They ran numbers and figured you were right. I already knew it though.

Even though Tim knew this wasn’t about the board meeting, he was trying to calm Jason’s wrath.

Jason: I'm going to go punch someone in the face to feel normal again. Keep Bruce off my back, you owe me big time.

He had failed his mission.

Tim: I’ll hold him off for as long as I can…

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Tim tried not to flinch at the familiar voice, “Tim. Let’s go get lunch.” 

Sorry Jason, it may not be as long as you hope for.

Jason texted him again, as if feeling something was wrong in the universe.

Jason: I'm blocking your number.

Bruce sat across from Tim at a three-Michelin-star restaurant in the Diamond District. White tablecloths. Crystal stemware. A wine list longer than some of Tim's quarterly reports.

The kind of place where business was conducted in whispers and handshakes meant millions.

The kind of place where Bruce Wayne took people he wanted to have serious conversations with.

Tim was practicing his 'innocent look' while Bruce ordered them both an entrée without consulting him. Power move. Classic Bruce.

A waiter appeared with bread and butter. Disappeared like smoke.

"So, Tim," Bruce said, tone conversational. Almost casual. "Would you mind explaining to me what Jason was doing at the board meeting earlier today?"

Tim had prepared for this. Had run through seventeen different deflection strategies on the drive over.

He went with option three: partial honesty.

"He was in the neighborhood. Decided to pass by."

Bruce gave him The Look. The one that said 'I've been interrogating criminals since before you were born, try again.'

"He was interested in what I do. So he wanted to sit in." Tim adjusted his napkin, buying time.

"Jason said some very interesting things back there for someone who was just 'sitting in.'" Bruce cut his bread with the precision of a surgeon. "Recommendations that board members with MBAs couldn't see. People that I've hand-picked for their positions."

Tim said nothing. Sometimes silence was the best defense. Their food arrived. Perfect timing. Tim had never been more grateful for a seared duck breast in his life.

"Tim, I'm not mad." Bruce waited until the waiter left. Bruce seemed to contemplate before conducting his actual interrogation, "...How long has Jason been helping you?"

Tim felt some relief. No point lying. Bruce clearly already figured it out.

Tim cut into his duck avoiding his eyes by focusing on the food. "I ask him for advice on some business problems. Operational stuff, mostly."

"And you didn't think to mention this to me?"

Never. 100% was not on my 'to-do' list. You and Jason fight all the time. Do you think Jason would be happy if anyone reported all their interactions to you?

"Jason's private. You know that." Tim met Bruce's eyes. "He helps me sometimes. That's all... we've been exchanging favors."

Bruce was quiet for a long moment, studying Tim with those analytical eyes. Detective mode fully engaged.

Tim shoved the panic down.

"How long, Tim?"

The question was gentle. Not accusatory. Not angry. Just... concerned.

Tim's throat felt tight. "Nine months. Maybe closer to ten now."

"Okay." Bruce said slowly, like he was processing. "You've been working with Jason for ten months and didn't tell anyone."

"I didn't want to jinx it." The words came out before Tim could stop them. Raw. Honest. "I didn't want anyone to know because if people knew, then Jason might stop. He might realize what he was doing and decide it wasn't worth it anymore."

Bruce's expression softened.

"He's brilliant, Bruce." Tim's voice cracked slightly. He set down his fork, his hands not quite steady. "Not just smart. Not just tactical. Brilliant. He sees patterns I can't see. Solves problems in minutes that take me weeks. And he acts like it's nothing. Like it's obvious. Like anyone could do it."

"But they can't," Bruce said quietly.

"No. They can't." Tim looked down at his plate. "Our executives can't. Our consultants can't. I can't. Not the way he does. And I've been—"

Tim stopped. Swallowed hard.

Say it. Just say it.

"I've been drowning, Bruce. For months before Jason started helping. Maybe years. I've been drowning and pretending I wasn't and working myself into the ground trying to keep up with something I wasn't qualified to do in the first place."

The admission hung in the air between them.

Bruce didn't speak. Didn't interrupt. Just waited.

"Every night felt like another crisis. Another problem I couldn't solve. Another decision I didn't know how to make. I'd sit in the Nest at 3 AM staring at spreadsheets and reports until the numbers blurred together, trying to find patterns, trying to see what I was missing. And I'd tell myself I was fine. That I could handle it. That I was Red Robin, I found you lost in time, I could figure out supplier risk management."

Tim laughed. "But I couldn't. I was failing. Slowly. And I couldn't admit it because admitting it meant admitting I wasn't good enough. That I wasn't you."

"Tim." Bruce's voice was low. Pained.

"Then Jason showed up and he just... solved it. Like it was easy. And I realized I'd been suffering for months with problems that took him minutes to fix. And I thought—" Tim's voice wavered. "I thought if I could just keep him helping me, if I could just figure out how to make him stay, then maybe I wouldn't drown anymore. Maybe I could actually do this job without destroying myself."

The restaurant noise faded into background static. The clinking silverware. The murmured conversations. All of it distant and irrelevant.

"So I manipulated him." Tim met Bruce's eyes. "I created this transactional system where he'd help me if I helped him. I framed everything as favors and exchanges because that's the only way Jason would accept it. And it worked. He kept coming back. He kept solving problems. And I kept breathing."

Bruce was very still. His expression was unreadable in that way that meant he was processing something significant.

"And I was afraid to tell you," Tim continued, quieter now. "Afraid you'd realize you made a mistake trusting me with the company. That I wasn't capable of handling it. That I needed help to do the job you thought I could do alone."

"Tim." Bruce reached across the table, his hand covering Tim's. The touch was warm. Grounding. "Why didn't you tell me it got this bad?"

Because you're Batman. Because you would have seen it as weakness. Because I was supposed to be better than this.

"Because you trusted me with the company. With your legacy. And I was failing at it."

"No." Bruce's voice was firm. "You weren't failing. You were learning a job that takes most people decades to master, while also being a vigilante, while also trying to hold this family together. You weren't failing, Tim. You were doing the impossible and burning yourself out in the process."

Tim felt his eyes sting.

"And I should have seen it," Bruce continued, his grip tightening slightly. "I should have noticed you were struggling. Should have checked in more, should have made sure you had the support you needed. That's on me, not you."

"You were busy—"

"I'm never too busy for my son."

The words hit Tim like a physical blow.

Son.

Not Robin. Not partner. Not protégé.

Son.

"I didn't think—" Tim had to stop. Had to breathe. "I didn't think I could ask for help. Not from you. You always seem so... capable. Like nothing's too much. And I thought if I admitted I was drowning, you'd realize you made a mistake and take it away from me..."

"Tim." Bruce moved his chair around the table, suddenly close, his hand still gripping Tim's shoulder. "Look at me."

Tim looked up, vision blurry.

"You're brilliant and determined and you care about people. You see things others miss. Because you never give up, even when you should." Bruce's expression was intense. Open in a way Bruce rarely allowed. "But that doesn't mean you have to do everything alone. That's not strength, Tim. That's suffering."

"I didn't want to disappoint you."

"You could never disappoint me. Do you understand that? You could never—" Bruce stopped, his jaw working. "I'm proud of you, Tim. Of everything you've accomplished. Everything you've built. But I'm most proud that you found a way to ask for help, even if you had to manipulate Jason into giving it."

"He'd say I manipulated him into it."

"Maybe at first. But Jason's not easy to manipulate for ten months. If he's still helping you, it's because he wants to."

"I don't want to go back," Tim finally said. "To before Jason. To doing it alone. To drowning."

"You won't. I won't make you."

Tim knew what Bruce was saying, that he'd step in and help Tim... But Jason helping was different somehow...

"But what if he leaves? What if he gets tired of helping me or realizes it's not worth it or—"

"Tim." Bruce waited until Tim looked at him. "Have you thought about offering him a permanent position?"

Tim blinked. "What?"

"A real position in the company." Bruce's expression was serious. "You said Jason's brilliant. That he sees things you and the executives can't see. So give him a place where that brilliance matters. Where he knows he's valued. Where staying isn't just about favors."

"He'd never accept that." Tim said immediately, shaking his head. "If I ask him? Jason would run. You know how he is about family stuff. About feeling trapped or obligated. If I offer him a job, he'll see it as me trying to control him or pin him down or—" Tim stopped, frustration building. "He'll say no just on principle."

Bruce was quiet for a moment, considering. "So you don't ask."

"What?"

"You don't ask him to take a position. You..." Bruce paused, thinking it through. "You create a situation where he wants it himself."

Tim stared at Bruce. "That's... that's still manipulation."

"No. That's creating an opportunity and letting him choose." Bruce leaned back slightly. "What does Jason want? What would make him choose to stay?"

Tim thought about it. About Jason showing up to solve problems. About the way he got frustrated with inefficient systems. About how he acted like everything was obvious when it clearly wasn't.

"Control," Tim said slowly. "Jason likes having control. And he hates inefficiency."

"So he'd want authority. The ability to implement his own recommendations without going through committees."

"Yeah. But he'd also want..." Tim tried to think like Jason. "He'd want it to be his choice. Not a favor to me. Not a family obligation. Something he chooses because he wants it."

"What if the position existed whether he took it or not?" Bruce suggested. "Not created for him specifically. Just... a role that needs filling. Chief Strategy Officer or something similar. You interview candidates, make it clear you're looking for someone with his specific skill set."

"And then what, hope he applies?" Tim said skeptically. "Jason's not going to fill out an application."

"No. But he might get annoyed watching you interview people who can't do what he can do." Bruce's eyes had that calculating look. "Especially if those people start implementing bad recommendations."

Tim felt a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "That's... actually kind of brilliant. And terrible… and as funny as it sounds… I don’t think I’m ready to put on that sort of pressure… I feel like Jason will see right through it all.”

Bruce sighed, taking his half-win from the conversation.

"Then at least make the position internally. You never know." Bruce squeezed Tim's shoulder again. "You should talk to him. Not about the job. Just... talk to him. Let him know what his help has meant. How much better things have gotten."

Yeah, that's not going to happen. I choose life, thanks.

Tim could already imagine that conversation going spectacularly wrong. Jason would get defensive, or suspicious, or would think Tim was trying to manipulate him into something. Which, to be fair, was exactly what Tim had been doing for ten months.

"Tim," Bruce said, his voice taking on a different tone—still gentle, but more clinical. More concerned. "Your panic attacks. Have they gotten better?"

Tim froze for a second, surprised by the subject change.

"Yes," Tim said quietly, setting down his fork. "They have. I haven't had one in... weeks, actually. Maybe a few months, even."

It was true. He'd been so focused on Jason and the work and the gradual shift from drowning to breathing that he hadn't even noticed the panic attacks had stopped. The chest tightness that used to come at 3 AM. The hyperventilating when faced with decisions he couldn't make. The spiral of inadequacy that would leave him shaking in his office chair.

All of it had just... faded.

"Since Jason started helping," Bruce observed. Not a question. A statement.

"Yeah." Tim met his eyes. "Since Jason started helping. I didn't even realize until you just asked. But yeah. They're better. I'm better."

Bruce's expression softened and mixed with something more contemplative. 

They finished their lunch. Made small talk about patrol schedules and Damian's latest school incident and Dick's new apartment in Blüdhaven. Normal family things.

But underneath it all, Tim's mind was spinning.

Create a position. Let Jason choose it himself. Don't ask, just... make it available.

It could work. Maybe. Possibly. If Jason didn't immediately see through it and get pissed off.

Who am I kidding? Jason will definitely see through it. But maybe... maybe he'll want it anyway?

When they stood to leave, Bruce pulled Tim into a brief, tight hug.

"Talk to Jason," Bruce said quietly. "Even if it's not about the job. Just talk to him."

"Sure," Tim said, in a tone that clearly meant 'absolutely not.'

Talk to Jason about feelings and appreciation? Yeah, I'll get right on that. Right after I voluntarily walk into a pit of lava. At least the lava would be faster.

Bruce gave him a knowing look—the one that said he heard exactly what Tim wasn't saying—but didn't push. Tim left the restaurant with his mind already working through the logistics. Chief Strategy Officer. Executive position. C-suite level. Direct report to CEO. Authority to implement strategic decisions without committee approval.

He could have HR draft the job description. Make it real.

And then... wait. See if Jason noticed. See if Jason cared.

This is either going to work brilliantly or blow up in my face spectacularly. Probably both. But it was worth trying. Because going back to drowning alone wasn't an option anymore.

Even talking to Jason about feelings sounded worse than facing Ra's al Ghul unarmed.

Psshhh. Actually talking to Jason about it? Actually having an emotional conversation about what his help has meant? Yeah, I choose life.

Two weeks later Jason appeared in Tim’s office.

Tim looked up when Jason walked into his office, feeling nothing but genuine surprise. "Jason? Did we have a meeting scheduled?"

He pulled up his calendar mentally, scanning through the day's appointments. Nothing. Just the usual Tuesday morning block he'd started keeping clear—not officially for Jason, but somehow it always ended up being for Jason anyway.

But I didn't call him. I didn't text. I didn't set anything up. Why is he—

"No." Jason dropped into his usual chair—and when had it become his chair? When had Tim started thinking of that specific seat as Jason's spot?—sprawling in it like he could fall asleep there. "But it's Tuesday. And you'll find something you want my opinion on eventually and call me in the middle of patrol. So. What is it this week?"

Tim's brain stuttered to a complete halt.

Wait. What?

He came. He just... showed up. Without me asking. Without me having to manipulate him into it. Without me creating some elaborate favor exchange to justify it.

"I—" Tim blinked, trying to organize his thoughts around the sudden rush of confusion and disbelief and cautious, fragile hope. "How did you know I have something?"

Did I accidentally text you? Did Oracle mention something? Did Bruce—No. There's no way you just... showed up. On your own.

That's not how this works. That's not how Jason works.

"Because you always have something." Jason crossed his arms, but his voice didn't have that defensive edge anymore. "So just show me now. Get it over with."

"Okay. Yeah. There's this supplier contract renewal that's been giving me trouble..." Tim turned to pull up the files, using the moment to collect himself.

Stay professional. Don't make it weird. Don't scare him off by showing how much this matters.

Jason solved it in twelve minutes.

Tim took notes—not because he needed to anymore, but because it gave him something to do with his hands while he watched Jason work. Watched the way Jason's brain processed information, made connections, saw patterns that Tim had been staring at for days without finding.

Twelve minutes. He fixed a problem I've been wrestling with for three days in twelve minutes.

The next Tuesday, Jason showed up again at 8:55.

Tim stared at him when he walked through the door.

Okayy. So last week wasn't a fluke. Or a one-time thing. Or some bizarre hallucination brought on by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

He's here. Again. Without me asking. Again.

Tim was ready for him this time—coffee already brewed the way Jason liked it (which Tim definitely hadn't spent time figuring out, absolutely not), files ready to review.

He didn't let himself look surprised when Jason walked in, even though his heart did this stupid little jump when he heard Jason's voice in the hallway.

Don't react. Don't make a big deal. Don't scare him off by showing how much you didn't believe he'd actually come back.

He just pulled up the week's problem and they got to work.

Like it was normal. Like this was just what they did now.

But it's not normal. This isn't normal for Jason. Jason doesn't do routine. Jason doesn't do predictable. Jason doesn't show up places consistently unless there's—

Stop. Stop analyzing it. Just accept it. He's here.

Tim solved his own problem halfway through explaining it to Jason—just from organizing his thoughts out loud, from having someone there to talk through it with.

"Wait," Tim said, fingers freezing over his keyboard. "Actually, I think I've got it. If we—"

"There you go." Jason leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied. "Told you. You just needed to think it through."

"You didn't tell me that."

"I was thinking it very loudly."

Tim laughed—actually laughed, the kind that came from his chest instead of just being polite.

The third Tuesday, Tim couldn't help himself.

Three weeks. Three Tuesdays in a row. Three times Jason had just... shown up.

"So this is a thing now? Tuesday mornings?"

He tried to keep his voice casual, but he could hear the disbelief bleeding through. The question underneath the question. This is real, right? You're actually doing this? I'm not imagining this?

"Sure." Jason didn't meet his eyes, and Tim's heart plummeted.

Here it comes. Here's where he says it was just temporary. Just until he didn't need any more favors. Just—

"You always need something on Tuesdays anyway. Might as well get ahead of it."

Tim's brain struggled to process that.

Wait. That's... that's not a no. That's not "this was just a temporary thing." That's—

That's him saying he's going to keep showing up. But it's still transactional. Still about efficiency. Still about getting ahead of the inevitable favor exchange. It's not about—

It's not because he wants to be here. It's just strategy. That's all.

Except…

Tim had gotten good at reading Jason over the past months. Good at seeing past the deflection, past the walls Jason kept up.

And something in Jason's posture—the way he'd settled into his chair, the lack of tension in his shoulders, the way he'd said "Tuesdays" like it was already an established fact—told Tim something different.

He's lying. He's deflecting. This isn't about efficiency. But what if I'm wrong? What if I'm seeing what I want to see? What if this really is just—

"Jason—" Tim started, not sure what he was going to say. Is this real? Please tell me I'm not imagining what this means.

"Don't make it weird. Just show me the problem."

Tim smiled despite himself—warm and genuine and probably too obvious about the fragile hope blooming in his chest.

Okay. I can do that. No problemo. I’m the captain of all things not-weird. I can not make it weird. I can just... let this be what it is.

Jason was showing up. Every Tuesday. That had to mean something. Even if Tim was too afraid to believe what it might mean.

Six weeks later, the Tuesday routine was solid.

Jason showed up at 8:55—early enough to beat the morning rush but not so early it looked eager. Tim had started timing his own arrival to make sure he was there first, so Jason wouldn't walk into an empty office.

Not that he thought Jason would leave if Tim wasn't there. Probably. Maybe.

Okay, he definitely timed it to make sure he was always there first.

The executives had started scheduling their most complicated problems for Tuesday afternoons, after Jason had been there. After he'd told Tim which frameworks to apply, which patterns to look for.

Tim's Tuesdays had become his favorite day of the week. And wasn't that something? The day he used to dread—start of the week, everything piling up, no rest from the weekend—had become the day he looked forward to.

Because Jason would be there.

They'd just finished working through a logistics problem—Jason had solved it in 45 minutes, which was apparently slow for him—when Tim remembered the gala.

Just ask. The worst he can do is say no. Which he will. He's definitely going to say no.

"So, um." Tim pulled up the calendar on his screen, buying himself a moment. "There's the Molina gala next month. The one WE is sponsoring. I know it's not your thing, but—"

He paused, watching Jason's face carefully. Saw the refusal forming.

"—but Viktor Molina specifically asked if the WE “consultant” would be there. Apparently after the board meeting, some news has got around."

Jason's expression shifted from automatic refusal to something more complicated. Trapped, maybe. Or considering.

Don't push. Let him come to it on his own. Don't make it sound desperate even though you really, really want him there because it would mean—

"I wouldn't ask, but he's a major potential client and he's specifically interested in meeting with you again."

"Fine."

Tim's brain short-circuited.

I'm hallucinating. I have to be hallucinating. There's no way Jason just said—

"Wait, what?"

Because clearly he'd misheard. Or Jason was being sarcastic. Or this was some elaborate joke. Jason didn't go to galas. Jason hated galas. Jason had spent years avoiding any event that required a suit and small talk.

"Fine," Jason repeated, looking vaguely annoyed at himself. "But I'm not staying more than two hours, I'm not answering personal questions, and if anyone tries to make me do small talk about my 'recovery,' I'm blaming you for whatever I say."

He said yes. Jason said yes. To a gala. To a social event. To be seen in public as part of the family.

This isn't real. This can't be real. I'm definitely hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or having some kind of stress-induced psychotic break.

Tim's surprise must have been plastered across his face because Jason was looking at him with that expression—the one that said "don't make a big deal out of this or I'll take it back."

"I'll give you a month off—" Tim started, because fair was fair, because this was a huge ask and Jason deserved compensation, because he needed to give Jason an out before Jason realized what he'd just agreed to and—

"Don't need it. I'm already here every Tuesday anyway." Jason stood to leave, movements casual like he hadn't just agreed to something Tim knew he'd hate. "Just text me the details."

Already here every Tuesday anyway.

Like it was a given. Like it was just part of his schedule now, permanent and unchanging. Like this was real and not some temporary arrangement that would evaporate the moment Tim looked at it too closely.

"Jason—" Tim's voice came out softer than he intended, full of all the disbelief and hope and fear he was trying to keep contained.

"Don't make it weird," Jason said again, but there was something in his voice—something that might possibly maybe almost fond?

No. Don't read into it. Don't assume. You're seeing what you want to see.

"It's just a gala."

It's not just a gala. It’s- Stop. Don't finish that thought. Don't hope for that. You'll just be crushed when it turns out to be something else.

Tim nodded, not trusting his voice to stay steady.

Jason left, and Tim sat at his desk for a long moment, staring at the door he'd just walked through.

He said yes. Six weeks of regular Tuesdays working together. And now this.

This has to mean something. Right?

Tim pulled out his phone and started drafting the text with the gala details, his hands not quite steady.

Don't get attached. Don't assume this is permanent. Don't believe it's real until you have actual proof that—

But Jason keeps showing up. Every Tuesday. Without being asked.

That has to count for something.

The gala was exactly as terrible as Tim expected. Maybe worse.

He'd been to hundreds of these events. Knew how to work a room, how to make small talk, how to turn conversations toward business opportunities. It was part of the job. Part of being CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

But tonight felt different. Tonight he was hyper-aware of Jason somewhere in the crowd, probably counting down the minutes until he could escape.

Tim spotted him near the bar, looking uncomfortable in his suit—which fit perfectly, because Alfred had insisted, but Jason wore it like armor he didn't trust. His shoulders were tense. His eyes kept tracking exits.

He's going to bolt. He's going to hit his two-hour limit and disappear and never agree to come to one of these again.

Tim finally encountered Molina and made small talk with him as they made his way over to Jason’s corner, intercepting Jason before he could make his escape.

"Mr. Wayne," Molina said, genuine warmth in his voice. "Your brother tells me you consult on operations."

"Sometimes. When he traps me into it." Jason shook his hand, and Tim could see him looking for exits even as he maintained the polite smile. "You're evaluating WE's manufacturing capabilities?"

Tim stayed quiet, letting Jason handle it. Watching the conversation unfold.

This is fine. This is going fine. Jason's being professional. He's engaging. He's not running away yet.

"I am. I want to ensure they can deliver what they promise."

And then Jason just... started talking.

Tim watched in something close to awe as Jason rattled off capacity utilization rates, quality control metrics, financial stability indicators—all from memory, all perfectly accurate, delivered like he was discussing the weather instead of providing analysis that would cost thousands of dollars from a consulting firm.

"They can. Current capacity utilization is 83% average, 91% in renewable energy, 76% in electronics. New Nevada facility comes online Q3, brings renewable down to 78%, provides growth buffer. Quality assurance is solid—six-sigma process control, good safety record. They're financially stable and operationally competent. You can partner with them."

How does he just know this? I sent him the basic files but not the detailed breakdowns. He just... absorbed all of it? And can recall it perfectly?

Molina blinked, clearly as stunned as Tim felt. "That's... quite comprehensive."

"That's the analysis. Do with it what you want." Jason turned to Tim, and Tim could see the silent plea in his eyes. I did the thing. Can I leave now?

"We done?"

Not yet. Please not yet. Molina's hooked. This is good. This is exactly what we needed.

"Could you maybe elaborate—" Molina started.

Jason's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he stayed. Started elaborating. Answering questions with that careful minimalism he always used—helpful but brief, informative but not chatty.

And Tim just... listened. Took mental notes. Watched Jason work.

For the next forty minutes, Jason fielded Molina's questions about South American logistics, distribution vulnerabilities, customs brokers, shipping companies. Information Jason shouldn't have—couldn't have—unless he'd done serious research.

Or unless he'd used those exact shipping routes for his own purposes.

Tim very carefully didn't think about that second option.

"Your distribution network has three critical vulnerabilities," Jason said, and Tim watched Molina pull out his phone to take notes. Actually taking notes on Jason's analysis. "Port strikes in Chile, border delays between Chile and Argentina, and your reliance on a single shipping company that's overleveraged and probably won't survive the next recession."

"How do you know about South American shipping companies?"

Good question. Tim would also like to know the answer to that question. And also he absolutely did not want to know the answer to that question.

"I read," Jason said, which was becoming his standard deflection.

Sure. You "read" about corrupt customs brokers in Buenos Aires. That's definitely how you know his fees are 15% above market rate.

Don't think about it. Don't examine it too closely. Just accept that Jason knows things and be grateful he's using that knowledge to help.

"You should also watch your customs broker in Buenos Aires. He's skimming."

Molina's eyebrows shot up. "How could you possibly know that?"

"His fees are 15% higher than market rate and his processing times are 30% slower. He's either incompetent or corrupt. Probably corrupt—incompetent people don't last long in that job." Jason checked his watch. "Can I leave now?"

Forty-three minutes. He's been at this for forty-three minutes. That's... actually impressive for Jason.

"You've just given me insights that would have taken my team months to discover."

"Your team's overthinking it. Most problems are obvious if you know what to look for." Jason was already backing toward the exit, and Tim recognized that look. Jason had hit his limit. He was done. "Glad I could help. Tim, I'm leaving."

Wait. Not yet. We haven't—

But looking at Jason's face, at the tension in his shoulders, at the way he was practically vibrating with the need to escape—

He stayed. He stayed for forty minutes and answered questions and helped even though he clearly wanted to leave. That's... that's huge for Jason.

"You're remarkably efficient," Molina observed.

"I'm motivated to end conversations quickly," Jason said honestly, which almost made Tim laugh. "And I've hit my social interaction limit for the year."

"Mr. Wayne, I'd like to hire your brother to consult on my manufacturing setup in South America."

Oh no.

Tim saw Jason's expression close off immediately. Saw the automatic refusal forming.

Please don't be offended. Please don't think I set this up. Please don't—

"No." Jason's voice was flat, final.

"I'll pay extremely well."

"Still no. I don't want to be a consultant. I just want to help Tim occasionally so he'll help me with stuff." Jason turned to Tim, and Tim could see something in his eyes—not anger, but definitely done. Completely done. "I'm leaving, I've hit my limit."

I just want to help Tim.

Tim's chest felt tight.

He doesn't want money. He doesn't want a consulting gig. He just wants... this. Whatever this is. This arrangement we have.

"Thanks, Jason." Tim kept his voice steady, professional, even though his mind was spinning. "I'll text you later."

Jason left through his planned escape route—Tim could tell because Jason had definitely scouted the exits when he arrived—and Tim turned back to Molina with his professional smile firmly in place.

But inside, his thoughts were chaos.

He stayed. He answered questions for forty minutes. He helped even though he hated every second of it. And he turned down a paying consulting gig because he just wants to help me. This is real. This has to be real. Right?

Tim's phone rang just as he was reviewing the acquisition target files for the third time that evening.

Blocked number. Jason.

"I need access to satellite surveillance," Jason said when Tim answered.

Satellite surveillance. Okay. That's... specific. And probably vigilante-related. Which means I should just give him the access and not ask questions.

But I also have this acquisition analysis sitting on my desk that I've been staring at for two days and—

"Great! I need help with—"

The line went dead. Tim stared at his phone.

He hung up on me. Jason hung up on me. That's... actually a little funny? Or concerning. Probably concerning.

His phone rang again thirty seconds later.

"I hate you so much right now," Jason said when Tim answered.

Tim couldn't help but smile. "I know. But you called back."

"Because I need the satellite access. Can't whatever emergency you're having wait till Tuesday?"

Tuesday was four days away. The acquisition analysis was due in two. And Tim had been spinning his wheels on it for forty-eight hours, building frameworks and running numbers and getting absolutely nowhere.

He could wait until Tuesday. Could struggle through it himself. Could pull another all-nighter and hope his exhausted brain would magically see the patterns it kept missing.

Or…

"Come on, it'll take thirty minutes tops. You'll solve it in ten, spend twenty minutes telling me I'm overthinking it, and then you'll get your satellite access."

There was a long pause on the other end.

He was pushing. He was comfortable enough to push Jason for this. It wasn't Tuesday. This wasn't the routine. This was asking Jason to come to WE headquarters on a random weeknight because Tim couldn't solve a problem himself.

"Fine." Jason's voice was resigned. "But I want dinner by the time I get there. Order something good. And expensive. On the WE corporate card."

Tim smiled as he argued half-heartedly, "That's not what corporate cards are for—"

"Consider it a consulting fee. I'll be there in an hour."

Jason hung up before Tim could respond.

Tim pulled up his favorite Thai place on his phone and placed an order that would definitely raise eyebrows in accounting. Pad thai, green curry, spring rolls, mango sticky rice—enough food for three people because he wasn't actually sure what Jason liked and didn't want to guess wrong.

While he waited, Tim pulled up the acquisition files again. Stared at them. Tried to see what Jason would see.

Revenue growth that looked good on paper but felt wrong somehow. The balance sheet that seemed solid but had something off about it. The cash flow that—

I've been staring at these numbers for two days. Jason's going to look at them for five minutes and immediately see what I'm missing.

That should be embarrassing. Should make Tim feel inadequate.

Instead, he just felt relief.

Two hours later—because traffic and Thai food delivery apparently conspired against them—Jason walked into Tim's office carrying his helmet and looking mildly annoyed.

"Food?" Jason asked, dropping into his usual chair.

Tim gestured to the spread of Thai food containers on his desk. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got... options."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "How much did this cost?"

"Don't worry about it. Corporate card, remember?" Tim pushed the containers toward him. "Payment for your consulting services."

"Consulting services," Jason repeated, but he was already opening containers and examining the contents. "Is that what we're calling this?"

What are we calling this? Transaction? Favor exchange? Brothers helping each other? Something else entirely?

"Thanks for coming tonight," Tim said, because that was safer than examining what they were actually doing here.

"Yeah, well." Jason shrugged, loading up a plate with pad thai. "I'd like those satellite codes sooner rather than later. And you're buying dinner, so."

"Always food motivated, I should have done this from the start."

"Har har. You're so funny. I'm a simple man with simple needs." Jason opened his second container—the green curry—and Tim made a mental note. Pad thai and green curry. Got it. "What was the crisis anyway? You solved it before I even got here."

Tim looked at his monitor, where he'd pulled up a new analysis framework. The one he'd built while waiting for Jason to arrive. The one where he'd finally started to see the pattern, just from knowing Jason was coming and trying to think like him.

"I solved it because I knew you were coming." The admission came out before Tim could stop it. "Having you repeatedly tell me that 'it's not that complicated' and 'you're overthinking this'... it helps. Makes me think clearer."

That's too honest. Too much. You're making it weird again.

Jason shifted uncomfortably, and Tim recognized that look. The "we're getting too close to feelings" look.

"Yeah, well. That's what it always is… whatever."

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Tim pulled up the acquisition analysis anyway—might as well get Jason's confirmation that his late-night revelation was actually correct—and watched Jason scan through the numbers while eating curry.

"Hey Tim," Jason said, staring at his curry container like it held the secrets of the universe. "Can I ask you something?"

Tim's heart rate picked up. Shit, what was this about? Was he going to ask Tim to stop helping with WE? Was he too pushy?

"Yeah?" Tim licked his dry lips.

"Is there like..." Jason paused, and Tim could see him choosing words carefully. "A permanent position here? Something official?"

Tim's brain stuttered to a complete halt.

A permanent position. Official. Jason is asking about—

Tim set down his food slowly, trying to process what he was hearing. "What?"

"Frank keeps giving me visitor badges every Tuesday." Jason still wasn't looking at Tim, still focused on his curry like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. "And it's fine, I guess. But I've been thinking... I'm here every Tuesday now. I come in for emergencies. I've been doing this for almost a year now."

Almost a year. Has it really been almost a year? Since that first night Jason broke into my office and told me about predatory pricing? Since I started manipulating him into helping me?

"Jason—" Tim's voice barely came through.

"And maybe I should make it official. Not just Tim's brother who helps sometimes. But like... an actual position. With a real badge. A key card.." Jason finally looked up, meeting Tim's eyes. "So I don't have to keep checking in at the front desk like I'm visiting."

Tim's eyes were definitely stinging now. His chest felt too tight and too full at the same time.

He wants to stay. Officially. Permanently. He's asking for a real position because he wants to stay.

This is real. This is actually happening. Jason is choosing this. Choosing to be here. Choosing me—choosing the family—choosing to stay.

"You want to stay," Tim said softly, because he needed to hear Jason say it. Needed confirmation that this was real and not some stress-induced hallucination. "Officially?"

"Yeah." Jason's voice came out rough, defensive. "I might as well bite this bullet. You'll just keep manipulating me to come back anyways."

And there it was. The deflection. The attempt to make it transactional again, to make it about Tim's manipulation instead of Jason's choice.

But Tim could see through it now. Could see the truth underneath the deflection.

You're choosing this. You're choosing to stay. You can call it whatever you want, but you're choosing this.

"Chief Strategy Officer," Tim said immediately, before Jason could second-guess or take it back or change his mind.

"What?"

Tim was already pulling up mental files. The position he'd had HR create months ago after the talk with Bruce. The paperwork he'd had them prepare, just in case, just hoping in vain—

"That's the title. C-Suite position. You'd report to me as CEO. Office on this floor. Real badge. Full access to all systems. Salary if you want it, though I'm guessing you don't need the money." Tim was smiling now, couldn't stop smiling even if he wanted to. "I had HR draw up the paperwork six months ago. Just in case. Just hoping you'd ask someday."

Jason's expression shifted through several emotions too quickly for Tim to track. Surprise, suspicion, something that might have been touched before settling into defensive.

"You've been waiting for me to ask?"

To be honest, I never thought you would… 

"You needed to choose it yourself," Tim said, and it was true. It had always been true. "You wouldn't have said yes if I asked."

Jason was quiet for a long moment, something complicated happening behind his eyes.

"I guess… maybe," he finally said.

Tim couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "So?" he asked, because he couldn't resist. Because the moment felt too big and he needed to lighten it somehow. "What makes you think you're qualified for this job?"

Jason punched his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make Tim laugh again.

Worth it. Totally worth it.

"Shut up," Jason said, but there was something almost fond in his voice. "Fine I'll say it. Make me a corporate slave. Give me the job. The official one. Chief Strategy Officer. With the stupid title and the real badge."

Tim's smile could have lit up all of Gotham. He knew it could, could feel it stretching across his face, probably looking ridiculous but he didn't care.

Jason was staying. Officially. Permanently.

"You start officially next Tuesday. I'll have your badge ready."

"I was already starting next Tuesday."

"Now you'll be starting officially." Tim pulled out his phone, fingers already flying across the keyboard. "I'm texting HR right now. They're going to be so excited—they've had your paperwork ready for months."

"You told HR?"

"I told them I had a potential C-suite candidate who might be interested eventually. They've been ready since March." Tim hit send on the email, making it official, making it real. "Done. You'll have your badge by Monday. Welcome aboard, CSO Wayne."

Jason looked uncomfortable with the emotion in the room, with the weight of what they were doing, but Tim could see something else there too. Something that looked like belonging. Like home.

"Thanks," Jason said quietly, not meeting Tim's eyes. "For waiting until I was ready. For not pushing."

Tim heard all the words Jason wasn't saying.

"Thanks for choosing to stay," Tim replied, his voice softer than he intended. "For choosing us. For choosing to be here."

For choosing me. For not leaving. For trusting me enough to make this permanent.

They finished their Thai food in comfortable silence. Not the awkward kind, but the easy kind. The kind that came from knowing each other, from working together, from being family.

When Jason left—after Tim had sent him the satellite access codes and the HR contact information and probably too many emails about the CSO position—Tim sat at his desk for a long moment, staring at the empty Thai food containers.

Jason asked to stay. Officially. He chose this.

Tim pulled up his calendar and looked at the Tuesday morning slots stretching into the future. Started mentally adding "CSO meeting" to all of them.

Not temporarily. Not until Jason changed his mind or got bored. Permanently. Jason was staying permanently.

Tim let himself smile again, big and ridiculous and real.

He's staying. He's actually staying.

And this time, Tim let himself believe it completely.

Two years into Jason's official position as Chief Strategy Officer, and Tim was reading an official email, complaining about Jason's… way with words.

From: Sandra Mitchell, VP of Human Resources
To: Timothy Drake-Wayne, CEO
Subject: URGENT: CSO Wayne and Strategic Planning Retreat

Mr. Drake-Wayne,

I am writing to formally express the executive team's concerns regarding CSO Wayne's recent response to our invitation for the annual Strategic Planning Retreat in Nassau.

Specifically, when asked to confirm his attendance, CSO Wayne stated: "I don't do corporate retreats. I especially don't do trust falls or team building exercises or any activity that involves the phrase 'let's go around the room and share.'"

When pressed, he clarified: "Email me your problems. I'll solve them from Gotham. Where I live. Away from trust falls and forced fun."

The planning committee then attempted to explain the value of executive cohesion, to which CSO Wayne suggested we "put it in [our] five-year strategic plan that CSO Wayne will never attend a corporate retreat and would definitely not catch [us] during trust falls."

Additionally, several committee members are now questioning whether trust falls are, in fact, an appropriate team building exercise.

Tim couldn't help but crack up every few sentences.

After finishing the email, and wiping tears from his eyes, he pulled out his phone, and decided to give Jason a call.

After a few rings Jason answered with his sarcastic, "What's up boss man?"

"Did you really tell the executive team to put 'CSO Wayne will never attend retreats' in their strategic plan?"

Tim couldn't help the laugh that escaped. He'd gotten the complaint email from the executive team about twenty minutes ago. Apparently Jason had been... Jason about the whole thing.

"I told them the truth. Your turn to manage their expectations. I showed up to the galas. I show up every Tuesday. I solved their acquisition problem last week. But I draw the line at corporate retreats."

Tim leaned back in his chair, still smiling. "Hmmm, okay. And did you tell them that you wouldn't catch them during trust falls?"

Because that was in the complaint email too. The executives were apparently very concerned about CSO Wayne's "hostile attitude toward team cohesion activities."

"It would be a lesson in risks and consequences." Jason's voice was completely deadpan.

Tim had to press his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

He's not wrong. They should learn to assess risk better.

"They just wanted to understand how your brain works."

"My brain works by not attending corporate retreats. Tell them to send me problems via email like they've been doing. I'll keep solving them. From here. In Gotham."

"You know they're terrified of you, right?"

And they were. Tim had seen the way executives tensed up when Jason's name came up in meetings. The way junior analysts would frantically double-check their work if they knew CSO Wayne was going to review it. The way the entire R&D division had apparently started a support group for "Surviving CSO Wayne Feedback Sessions."

It was honestly hilarious.

"Good. Fear keeps them from inviting me to things." Jason's voice went slightly muffled—helmet going on. "I'm a Chief Strategy Officer who solves problems efficiently and then disappears. Let them be scared. Maybe they'll actually implement my recommendations instead of arguing about them for six weeks."

"They always implement your recommendations."

Because they did. Eventually. After much unnecessary debate and hand-wringing and "but are we sure?" discussions that made Tim want to scream.

Jason was always right. The executives had learned that the hard way over two years. But they still argued about it first, like maybe this time Jason would be wrong.

He never was.

"Eventually. After much unnecessary discussion." Jason sounded like he was moving toward a window. "Anyway, I'm heading out. Crime Alley doesn't protect itself."

"Wait, Jason—before you go."

Tim hadn't planned to say anything. Hadn't planned to have this conversation. But something about the moment felt right. Felt like maybe he should acknowledge what the past two years had meant.

"What?" Jason's voice carried a hint of suspicion.

Seriously? Another issue? Already?

Tim could practically hear Jason thinking it.

"I just..." Tim paused, trying to find the right words. "Thanks for… for you know. For making this work even though I know corporate stuff makes you want to punch things."

There was a long silence on the other end.

Say something. Don't make this weird. Just acknowledge it and move on.

"Yeah, well." Jason's voice came out rougher than normal, filtered through the helmet's modulator. "Someone's gotta keep you from running yourself into the ground. Might as well be me."

Tim felt his chest go warm.

"I'm serious. Two years ago, I was drowning." Tim kept his voice steady, professional, even though his throat felt tight. "Now I- I like coming in on Tuesdays. That's because of you."

Another long silence.

Please don't deflect. Please don't make a joke. Please just accept this.

"You would've figured it out eventually," Jason said, but even through the modulator Tim could hear that he didn't believe it.

"No, I wouldn't have." Tim was firm about that. He needed Jason to understand this. Needed him to know what he'd done. "I would've kept going until I burned out completely. Every emergency call. Every time you solve something in ten minutes that would've taken me weeks."

Every Tuesday morning when I know you'll be there. Every time I hit a problem and think "Jason will know how to handle this." Every moment when I'm not alone anymore.

"Just… Don't tell anyone I'm going soft. I have a reputation to maintain."

Tim laughed, the tension breaking. "Your secret's safe with me. Red Hood, terrifying crime lord who definitely doesn't care about his little brother."

"Exactly. Keep it that way."

There was a pause, the sound of Jason moving. Then—

"Hey, Tim?"

"Yeah?"

Tim sat up straighter, something in Jason's tone catching his attention.

"You're doing good. With the company. With everything. Don't let those executives make you doubt yourself." Jason's voice was serious now, sincere. "You're a good CEO. You just needed someone to handle the stuff that wasn't your strong suit. That's what a team is for."

Tim's eyes stung.

Jason thinks I'm a good CEO. Jason, who sees through everything, who spots every weakness, who never gives false praise—he thinks I'm doing good.

"Jason—"

"And I'm glad it's me. Glad I'm the one helping you." The words came out fast, awkward, like Jason was forcing himself to say them before he lost his nerve. "So. Yeah. See you Tuesday."

The line went dead. Tim sat at his desk, phone still pressed to his ear, trying to process what had just happened.

Jason said he was glad. That he was glad to be the one helping me. That he was glad to be here.

Not just tolerating it. Not just accepting it. Glad.

Tim set his phone down slowly, a smile spreading across his face despite the stinging in his eyes.

Jason was glad to be here. Glad to be part of this. Glad to be Tim's brother and partner and team.

Tim pulled up his calendar and looked at the week’s schedule. "Tuesday 9 AM: CSO Strategy Session."

See you Tuesday, Jason.

Tim smiled at his computer screen.

Yeah. Best dumb mistake I ever made.

Definitely.

Epilogue

The first Friday after Jason officially started as CSO, Tim found himself staring at his phone at 6 PM, trying to figure out how to phrase a simple question.

He'd been thinking about it all day. About how they'd spent almost a year doing this transactional favor-exchange thing, and then the past few months being actual colleagues, and now Jason was officially part of the company and—

And Tim didn't know what they were outside of work.

Brothers, technically. Family, supposedly. But what did that actually mean? They worked together on Tuesdays. Jason showed up for emergencies. They'd had that one conversation at the gala about coffee quality.

That was it. That was their entire relationship outside of spreadsheets and strategic planning.

Is that weird? That feels weird. We should probably... hang out? Do brothers hang out? Normal brothers probably hang out.

Tim typed and deleted three different messages before sending one.

Tim: You busy tonight?

He hit send before he could overthink it more.

Jason's response came back almost immediately: Why?

Of course. Because Jason assumed everything was transactional. Because that's how Tim had trained him to think over the past year.

Great job, Drake. You've conditioned your brother to assume you only contact him when you need something.

Tim: Just wondering if you wanted to grab dinner. No work stuff. Just... dinner.

He stared at his phone, waiting. The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

He's going to say no. He's going to think this is weird. This IS weird. Why did I ask? We don't do casual dinners. We do business meetings and crisis management and—

Jason: Pass. I have patrol.

Tim's chest felt tight. Right. Of course. Jason had patrol. That was a legitimate reason. Not a rejection. Just a scheduling conflict.

Except Tim knew Jason's patrol schedule. Knew he didn't usually head out until after 10 PM on Fridays. Knew this was Jason's polite way of saying "no thanks."

He should just let it go. Should say "okay, another time" and pretend he hadn't just tried to initiate a social interaction with his brother like some desperate—

Tim: Patrol doesn't start until 10. Come on, it's just food. My treat.

Why did I add "my treat"? Now it sounds transactional again. Like I'm paying him to hang out with me. Smooth, Drake. Real smooth.

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

He's trying to find a nice way to say no. He's probably crafting some excuse about needing to prep his gear or check in with his lieutenants or—

Jason: Fine. But somewhere with actual food. Not those fancy places with three peas on a plate.

Tim exhaled. He'd been holding his breath and hadn't even realized it.

He said yes. He actually said yes. This is happening. Don't make it weird. Just suggest a normal place. Be casual.

Tim: Deal. I know a good burger place in the Bowery.

An hour later, they were sitting in a booth at Big Belly Burger, and Tim was trying very hard to act normal.

What do people talk about? What do brothers talk about? Not work. You said no work. So what else is there?

The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the sound of them eating. Tim's brain scrambled for conversation topics.

Weather? Too boring. Patrol? That's basically work. Family? Too loaded. The new coffee supplier he'd found that was actually good and would definitely be better than whatever Jason's dealers were stealing—

Wait. That's perfect. That's a callback to our text conversation. That's practically an inside joke.

"So I found a better coffee supplier," Tim said, then immediately realized he was talking about work. "For WE. Not that you care. But it's actually good now. Better than—"

He stopped himself before saying "better than your drug dealers' stolen coffee" out loud in a public restaurant.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Better than what?"

"Just. Better than it was. You were right about the old stuff being terrible." Tim took a bite of his burger to stop himself from rambling. "Anyway. How's... how's Crime Alley?"

"It's Crime Alley. Same as always." Jason stole one of Tim's fries. "How's the Nest?"

"It's the Nest. Same as always." Tim stole one of Jason's onion rings in retaliation.

They fell back into silence.

This is painful. This is actually painful. We work together fine. We solve problems together fine. Why is just sitting and eating so HARD?

Tim's brain kept trying to fill the silence with analysis. With problem-solving. With the marketing campaign he'd been thinking about all day because it was bothering him and he couldn't figure out why the demographic data felt wrong and—

"I've been thinking about our marketing campaign," Tim said, and immediately wanted to kick himself.

NO WORK. You said NO WORK. What is wrong with you?

But once he started, he couldn't stop. The words just came tumbling out—about customer acquisition, about demographic targeting, about how they were missing something fundamental in their approach and he couldn't figure out what.

Fifteen minutes later, he was mid-sentence about conversion metrics when Jason interrupted.

"I thought this wasn't about work."

Tim stopped. Blinked. "What?"

"You said no work stuff. You've been talking about customer acquisition strategies for fifteen minutes."

Oh.

Oh no.

"Sorry, I just—" Tim felt his face heat up. "I've been thinking about it all day and—"

I ruined it. I made this about work when I specifically said it wasn't about work. He's going to think I just wanted a free consulting session. He's going to think this whole dinner was a setup to get his opinion on marketing strategy.

"Tim." Jason's voice was patient. Almost amused. "Eat your burger. Talk about literally anything else."

"Right. Yeah. Anything else." Tim picked up his burger, mind completely blank. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Normal stuff. Movies. Books. That weird thing Damian did last patrol."

"Damian's always doing weird things on patrol."

"Exactly. Talk about that."

So Tim tried. Told Jason about Damian's latest dramatic declaration that he was going to "revolutionize" their patrol routes. About Dick's terrible puns that had made even Bruce groan. About Cass silently judging all of them from the shadows.

And Jason... laughed. Actually laughed. Told his own stories about the chaos in Crime Alley, about the time one of his lieutenants tried to implement a "customer service survey" for information brokers.

They talked about stupid stuff. Inconsequential stuff. The kind of stuff Tim never had time for because he was always too busy working or patrolling or solving the next crisis.

It was nice. Really nice. 

When Tim checked his watch, it was 9:30. They'd been sitting there for over two hours.

"You should probably head out," Tim said reluctantly. "Patrol."

"Yeah." Jason didn't move immediately. "This was... good. We should do this again sometime."

Tim's heart did something complicated in his chest.

He wants to do this again. He didn't think it was weird. He didn't think I was trying to manipulate him.

"Next Friday?" The words came out before Tim could stop them.

Please say yes. Please don't think I'm being pushy. Please—

Jason considered it for a moment. "Make it every other Friday. I have things."

"Every other Friday," Tim agreed immediately. "Deal."

They split the check—despite Tim's protests that he'd said his treat—and walked out into the Gotham night.

"See you Tuesday," Jason said, pulling on his helmet.

"See you Tuesday," Tim echoed.

He watched Jason ride away on his bike, then headed back to the Nest with a lightness in his chest he couldn't quite explain.

Two weeks later, they had their second Friday dinner. This time Jason picked the place—a hole-in-the-wall book cafe bistro.

"This is where my people get their good coffee," Jason said with a smirk.

The food was incredible. The coffee was even better.

They talked about patrol again. About the cases they were working. And yes, Tim slipped in some work stuff, but Jason just rolled his eyes and answered anyway before steering the conversation back to normal topics.

It became a routine. Every other Friday. Different restaurants. No work talk—or at least, minimal work talk. Just brothers hanging out.

A few more Fridays into their biweekly dinners, Tim showed up to Jason's safehouse with a gaming console under his arm.

"What is that?" Jason eyed the box suspiciously.

"I thought we could try something different." Tim pushed past him into the apartment. "Dick said you used to be into games. Before..." you died…

Tim didn't say it out loud, but Jason heard it anyway. His expression flickered with something complicated.

"I don't really—"

"It's co-op," Tim interrupted, already setting up the console. "We'd play together. Against the computer. No competition. Just... teamwork."

Jason was quiet for a long moment. "You're really bad at having a normal social life, you know that?"

"I'm trying." Tim looked up from the cables he was untangling. "I'm really trying, okay? I don't actually know how to do this. I just- I don’t want us to be nothing more than coworkers or people who trained under the same mentor… I'm making it up as I go."

The confession hung in the air between them.

Jason's expression softened. "Okay. Fine. Let's try your stupid co-op game."

They were terrible at it.

But they started playing every Friday because they had to beat Dick’s record.