Work Text:
It started, like all catastrophes do, with a gala.
Tim Drake hadn’t attended one in months—not since the last fundraiser ended with someone’s dress catching fire (not his fault, despite the allegations) and Bruce giving a speech so long even the mayor started scrolling through his phone under the table.
Tonight’s event was for some obscenely rich children’s hospital. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, string quartet in the corner pretending not to loathe their lives. A waiter had already offered him truffle hors d’oeuvres with something gelatinous on top. He’d nodded politely and passed them off to Dick, who accepted them with the enthusiasm of a raccoon discovering free pizza.
Tim adjusted his tie and subtly leaned against a column, just close enough to the open bar to smell the overpriced scotch, but not close enough to start reevaluating his life choices.
Then came the herd: Dick, all charisma and sparkling teeth; Jason, in a tux he swore he’d burn after this; and Damian, who’d already insulted three donors and was currently eyeing the centerpiece like it had personally offended him.
“I feel like this is a trap,” Jason muttered as he joined Tim, glancing around the hall. “Why are we all in one place? That’s asking for something to explode.”
“You’re the one most likely to explode,” Damian offered without looking up from his phone.
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Don’t jinx it. I still have to pretend I care about the silent auction.”
Just then, their eyes collectively drifted toward the stage. On it stood a lonely microphone on a sleek silver stand. A placard read: “CURRENTLY MALFUNCTIONING. DO NOT USE.” The cord still trailed off behind the curtain, connected to who-knew-what.
“Shouldn’t someone unplug that if it’s broken?” Dick asked, because of course he did.
“No, no, leave it,” Jason said, grinning like he knew exactly how the universe worked and had already resigned to watching it burn. “This is Chekhov’s mic. Someone’s going to say something deeply humiliating into it, and I’d like a front-row seat.”
They stayed near it. Because they were Wayne siblings. And being near terrible ideas was practically family tradition.
Fifteen minutes passed. Tim sipped at soda masquerading as champagne, let his brain wander into internal monologues about how awful fundraisers smelled (like desperation and hair gel), and tried very hard not to think about the blinding smile a passing CEO just shot at Dick.
Then came the conversation that would lead to disaster.
“I’m just saying,” Dick said, holding up a finger like this was the start of a noble defense, “everyone has at least one dumb injury story. Mine was the trapeze accident.”
“You fell because you were flirting mid-air,” Tim muttered.
Jason coughed, “I got stabbed in the thigh by a 14-year-old in Gotham’s version of a LARP fight club.”
Damian snorted. “Cowards. I dislocated my shoulder escaping an assassination attempt in Malaysia.”
Tim blinked. “When did you go to Malaysia?”
“You were too busy sulking in your caffeine cave to notice.”
“I wasn’t sulking,” Tim said. “I was—” He trailed off, noticing Jason had that look in his eyes.
“What about your dumbest injury, Replacement?” Jason asked innocently.
“No.”
Dick leaned in. “C’mon. You owe us.”
“I dislocated my knee while trying to sneak a Pop-Tart out of the Manor’s kitchen at 2 AM.”
A beat. Then Dick wheezed.
“You what?” Jason choked.
“There was a cat,” Tim hissed. “And a Roomba.”
“Oh my god,” Dick said between cackles. “How did you dislocate a knee with a Pop-Tart and a Roomba?”
“I tripped. Fell weird. It’s not the worst story in this group!”
Jason was laughing so hard he had to lean on Damian, who immediately shoved him off.
“Don’t touch me. Also, this is pathetic. You’re all pathetic. Todd, your face still twitches when someone says the word ‘crowbar.’”
“Do not start with me, gremlin.”
“I will end you.”
“Oh yeah? Say goodbye to your ability to produce heirs—”
Jason’s foot shot out. It didn’t connect with Damian because Tim, always the unlucky soul, stepped forward at the worst possible second.
He got the heel of Jason’s dress shoe right into the thigh and crashed forward into Dick, who yelped, spun, and knocked over a chair.
Tim tried to catch himself.
His palm smacked the "malfunctioning" microphone instead.
There was a click. A soft electrical pop.
The little red light on the mic blinked to life.
Tim froze.
“Hey, guys…” he said cautiously, eyes flicking toward the glowing LED. “I think—”
But no one heard him.
Because at that exact moment, Jason pointed dramatically at Damian and declared, “You tried to neuter me last week.”
“I aimed for your spleen,” Damian shot back. “Your reflexes are just tragically misaligned.”
Tim’s hand hovered helplessly near the mic. “Guys. Seriously. The mic—”
“I still think you’re both full of it,” Dick said, laughing. “You know what’s worse than Jason getting kicked? When Tim screamed bloody murder because he thought the Roomba was sentient.”
“I did not scream,” Tim hissed, panicking now. “And it had knives!”
“You said, and I quote,” Jason said in a falsetto, “‘It’s learning. It knows my routes.’”
“That was once, and I was sleep-deprived!”
Tim glanced around. A few heads at nearby tables had turned. Someone chuckled.
No.
He looked back at the mic, the little red light still blinking like it was enjoying the show.
“Guys. Guys. Stop. The mic is—”
“I bet his Pop-Tart screamed louder than he did,” Jason continued, delighted with himself.
“Which body part was it that got dislocated?” Dick asked, eyes twinkling.
“My knee,” Tim muttered through gritted teeth. “Can we please—”
Jason nodded solemnly. “You know what else bends funny when you fall on it wrong? A penis.”
That did it.
Several nearby guests actually gasped. One woman dropped her wine glass. The quartet in the corner faltered mid-note, like someone had just died in their string section.
Tim slapped his forehead.
Finally—finally—Dick caught sight of the blinking light on the mic.
“…Wait,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Why is that red?”
Everyone froze.
Four pairs of eyes dropped to the mic.
There was a beat of silence.
“…Oh no,” Tim whispered.
Then the room exploded.
Laughter, shocked gasps, the distinct sound of someone choking on an olive. One of the board members looked ready to faint. Another had already taken out their phone and was definitely recording.
Jason backed away with hands up like he was at gunpoint. “Okay. Not my fault. He fell into it. Blame Tim.”
“I tried to tell you!” Tim practically screamed.
Dick covered his face, shoulders shaking with either laughter or despair. “Do you think they heard the Roomba part?”
“I hope they heard the penis part,” Jason muttered. “If I go down, I’m going down in flames.”
Damian had already disappeared like a gremlin smoke bombed out of existence.
The tech guy finally barreled up to the stage, yanked the cord like he was putting the mic out of its misery, and scurried away without eye contact.
Silence fell.
For approximately three seconds.
Then Bruce arrived.
He looked at his sons, all four of whom were frozen like teenagers caught TP-ing a police station.
“I was on my way to give the keynote speech,” Bruce said, very slowly. “And I passed by someone in the hall saying, ‘Did that boy really say the Roomba was after him?’”
No one spoke.
Bruce blinked at them.
Tim cleared his throat. “...Do you want us to leave quietly or dramatically?”
Jason raised a hand. “I vote dramatically.”
“You’re banned from voting,” Damian’s voice muttered from somewhere behind a curtain.
Bruce exhaled through his nose. “Go sit down.”
They shuffled away. Dick tripped on the chair he’d knocked over earlier. Jason patted Tim on the back.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “This may have been your worst gala performance yet.”
“Shut up,” Tim muttered. “At least I didn’t say penis on a live mic.”
“You’re right,” Jason grinned. “You said ‘It knows my routes.’ Way worse.”
----
The four of them slunk back to their table like defeated hyenas, dragging chairs and dignity in equal measure. Tim collapsed into his seat, face in his hands, muttering something that sounded vaguely like “burn it all down.”
“I can’t believe that just happened,” Dick groaned, eyes still darting around as if he could Jedi mind-trick the entire gala into collective amnesia.
“It could’ve been worse,” Jason said, crossing his arms smugly. “I could’ve gone into detail.”
“Please,” Tim croaked. “Stop talking.”
The gala slowly regained some of its lost elegance. Bruce was up at the podium now, delivering a heartfelt speech about community outreach and sustainability, the audience settling into a reverent hush.
Everything was quiet again.
Too quiet.
And that’s when Damian’s phone went off.
“BIG BOOTY B* TCHES , WE OUT HERE—”
Tim jerked like he’d been electrocuted. Jason dropped his drink. Dick audibly choked on a breadstick.
Damian, ever the embodiment of calm, pulled his phone out with a flick of his wrist. The screen flashed a call from “Grayson :/.”
“You assigned Dick that ringtone?” Tim whisper-yelled, aghast.
“I assign all of you different threat levels,” Damian replied coolly, stabbing the screen to silence the song mid-“BOOTY.”
Jason was wheezing.
From the stage, Bruce stopped mid-sentence. His jaw twitched.
“...What was that?” he asked, deadpan.
Someone at the next table said, “It’s... artistic expression?”
A few claps started—awkward, pitying claps—before someone else loudly whispered, “Is that the small one’s phone?”
“Just sit still,” Dick muttered through gritted teeth. “If we don’t move, maybe the embarrassment will forget we exist.”
But humiliation is a vengeful god.
Because right as Bruce resumed his speech, Jason’s phone decided it, too, wanted in on the chaos.
A distorted scream blasted from his pocket:
“YEAH BABY, THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR, THAT’S WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT! WOOOOO!”
Tim slammed his forehead onto the table.
“Why,” he mumbled into the linen, “do you have a MoistCr1TiKaL meme as your ringtone?”
“Because it’s iconic,” Jason said, unapologetic as he swiped to mute it. “And also—it’s Alfred.”
Dick blinked. “Wait, Alfred made that call?”
“Probably to warn us the manor is already on fire from secondhand shame.”
From the podium, Bruce was silent again. You could see it on his face—five stages of grief cycling behind his eyes.
Jason gave him a thumbs-up.
Bruce did not return it.
Tim peeked up just enough to see several donors whispering and shaking their heads, one of them filming discreetly under the table.
“Hey,” Dick said brightly, false cheer in his voice. “At least it wasn’t my phone this time—”
“WHAT’S UP DADDY??”
Every head in the room turned.
Dick froze.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he reached into his blazer and pulled out his phone.
The ringtone looped.
“YOU’VE GOT A CALL, DADDY!”
Jason fell out of his chair.
Damian just blinked and said, “That’s what you get for installing TikTok.”
Dick finally muted it and looked around the room with the haunted expression of a man who’d just watched his own reputation implode.
“I can’t explain that,” he said weakly. “There is... no explanation.”
Bruce didn’t even speak this time. He just stared down at them, dead-eyed, while the gala erupted into either laughter, scandalized gossip, or the sound of more phones being whipped out to record.
Somewhere, a waiter dropped a tray.
Tim turned to the others, voice raw with disbelief. “We are never getting invited to one of these again.”
Jason clinked his glass against Tim’s. “Thank God.”
Tim stared at the ceiling like he was trying to astral-project out of the ballroom.
“Why,” he said, voice tight, “did you call Damian when he was literally standing next to you earlier?”
Dick looked guilty for exactly one second, then shrugged. “He walked away, and I wanted to remind him to sit like a normal person.”
“I was adjusting my posture,” Damian hissed, arms crossed. “Some of us don’t slouch like gorillas.”
Jason snorted. “You also assigned Dick a ringtone that implies he’s a threat to booty. So, like. Maybe your priorities aren’t straight.”
Tim turned to glare at all of them. “Why the hell are none of you silencing your phones?”
Jason raised both hands. “Mine was on silent.”
“You just played MoistCr1TiKaL yelling into the room!”
“Yeah,” Jason admitted, “but, like… emotionally, it was silent.”
Tim slammed his napkin on the table like it had insulted his lineage.
“This is a formal charity gala, not a frat house with security clearance!”
As if summoned by those words, someone from the auction table near the stage tapped the mic to test it. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll now begin the bidding for our special Wayne Foundation weekend retreat package!”
The room quieted.
Everyone turned.
Finally—finally—the spotlight was off them.
Bruce looked ready to chew glass, but at least he was facing the audience.
And then Tim’s phone buzzed.
Not loudly.
Just a soft hum in his pocket.
Tim stared down at it like it had personally betrayed him.
He’d turned off sound. He’d even set it to Do Not Disturb. He slowly pulled it out.
One new notification.
From the family group chat.
Jason: “$20 says Tim breaks a glass before dessert.”
A second message.
Dick: “Double if he cries.”
Tim’s thumb hovered over the “Leave Group” button like a soldier about to disarm a bomb.
And then—because karma was a creative bitch—his phone, in its infinite spite, chose that exact moment to autoplay a voice note from Jason.
“Hey Siri, define ‘emotional damage.’”
The woman across the table shrieked with laughter.
Someone clapped.
The auctioneer hesitated, thrown off.
Bruce’s jaw flexed so hard, you could hear it.
Tim locked his phone, set it on the table like it was radioactive, and folded his hands calmly.
“I am,” he said, “going to the bathroom.”
Jason sipped his drink. “Need company?”
“I need you to spontaneously combust.”
Dick leaned over and stage-whispered, “Wait, did you hear the one about the time Tim—”
Tim shoved his chair back so hard it squealed, stood, and left with the force of someone walking toward either salvation or a nervous breakdown.
Behind him, Jason whispered, “He’s definitely crying. I want my forty bucks.”
----
Tim stormed through the ballroom, past waitstaff and confused millionaires, straight into the nearest marble-tiled sanctuary: the guest bathroom.
The door shut with a satisfying slam behind him.
Silence.
Blessed, cold silence.
He braced his hands against the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.
Unfortunately, his reflection was still him.
“I’m fine,” he told it, as if saying it out loud would make it true. “I am a composed adult.”
His eye twitched.
Behind his reflection, he could imagine them.
Bruce’s withering disappointment. Jason’s smug grin. Dick’s godawful “oopsie” smile. Damian’s cold disapproval that somehow still managed to scream gremlin energy. And himself, crumpling under the weight of his blood pressure and social shame.
He clenched his jaw and did what any emotionally repressed Wayne would do.
He gently—gently—banged his forehead against the mirror.
Once.
Twice.
The third time had rhythm.
Bonk.
Bonk.
Bonk.
“Now,” he whispered, still pressed to the glass, “my mind is clear.”
----
Tim returned to the table with the stiff, twitchy composure of someone pretending they hadn’t just had a mini existential crisis in a luxury bathroom. He sat down, adjusted his suit like it hadn’t wrinkled under the crushing weight of humiliation, and silently sipped his water like it was laced with sedatives.
He was calm. He was composed. He was not going to scream.
Then the auctioneer cleared his throat. “We’ll now begin bidding for a private lunch with Mr. Bruce Wayne and a guided tour of Wayne Manor!”
Polite applause rippled through the ballroom.
Tim internally braced for nothing. Just a quiet round of snooty bidding—
“Thirty thousand dollars!” Jason shouted, already half out of his seat, a paddle he definitely didn’t own raised high like he was saluting chaos.
Tim snapped his neck so fast to glare, he nearly gave himself whiplash. “What the hell are you doing?”
Jason grinned and shrugged. “Stimulating the economy.”
“You’re bidding on Bruce,” Tim hissed. “Are you trying to traumatize the guests?”
“I’m making sure nobody else gets that tour,” Jason said smugly, sitting back down like he’d just ended world hunger.
Across from him, Damian glared. “With my money, no less. I saw the notification.”
“I’ll pay you back,” Jason said, voice full of lies.
“You’re gonna Venmo him in blood,” Tim muttered.
Dick leaned over, eyes glittering with delight. “We should’ve just let Tim keep hitting the mirror. This is way more fun.”
“You were the one who called Damian while he was two feet from you and started the ringtone apocalypse,” Tim snapped.
“It was tactical misjudgment,” Dick said.
“It was idiocy,” Tim corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose.
As if summoned by the gods of irony, someone’s phone went off again—this time with a horrifyingly loud edit of that one meme song:
“I’m not gonna sugarcoat it, that thing was thicker than a bowl of oatmeal—”
Three tables turned.
Tim’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“Whose phone was that?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Everyone looked at Jason.
Jason looked at Damian.
Damian looked insulted.
“That wasn’t mine,” Jason swore. “This time.”
“It was mine,” Dick admitted sheepishly, already fumbling to silence it. “I forgot I set that one for Alfred.”
Tim stared. “Why the hell would you assign that to Alfred?”
“So I know it’s important!” Dick protested.
Tim looked skyward. “God, smite me. I’m right here. I won’t even dodge.”
Bruce, still on stage, turned briefly to glare at their table.
Jason waved.
Tim was fully ready to crawl under the table and begin a new life as someone who didn’t share a last name with these people.
And then a new ringtone blared from somewhere—Tim’s phone this time.
A distorted voice shouted: “I’m in me mum’s car—broom broom!”
He stared in pure betrayal at his screen.
It was from the family group chat.
The message?
Bruce: “Behave.”
----
Tim narrowed his eyes at the glittering cutlery and his imbecile siblings.
If no one was going to rescue him from this mess, he’d rescue himself—through performance.
He pushed back his chair just enough to be dramatic. Clutched his chest. Sighed like someone whose lover had just died in a carriage crash.
“Oh. Oh no. I feel... faint. My soul is cracking. My heart can’t take—”
Jason didn’t even blink. “Sit down, you Victorian orphan.”
Dick raised his wine glass. “Solid B-minus on the collapse. Not your best work.”
“I’m trying to exit the situation with grace,” Tim hissed, sitting back down. “Since no one trusts me, fine. I’ll eat. Maybe I’ll actually die.”
Damian handed him a butter knife. “Please don’t make a scene with cutlery.”
So Tim grabbed a tiny, beautiful amuse-bouche off a server’s passing tray and popped it in his mouth with spite.
It was... good. Bright. Citrusy.
A little too citrusy.
“Wait,” he said slowly, licking his lips. “Is this... persimmon?”
Jason blinked. “Dude, who’s allergic to persimmons?”
“I am!” Tim barked. “Do you know how rare that is? It’s like... one in 200,000 people!”
Dick leaned forward. “Are you serious?”
Tim pointed at his mouth, which was already swelling slightly. “Does this look like a joke?!”
“Oh my God,” Jason muttered, standing so fast his chair scraped back and hit a waiter. “He’s actually doing it. He’s allergic to fancy fruit.”
Damian buried his face in his hands. “You had a fake dramatic episode, and now you’re having a real medical one? You’re an embarrassment to theatrics.”
Tim wheezed. “My lips feel like balloons!”
“Does anyone have an EpiPen for persimmons?” Dick called out to the table like they were in a community theater production of Medical Emergency: The Musical.
“I’m getting Alfred,” Jason said, dialing furiously. “He’s gonna kill us if Tim dies in front of a U.S. Senator and a model.”
Tim knocked over his water in a flailing attempt to stay upright. “I knew I was the rarest Wayne, but this is too far!”
Right then, the microphone—still subtly active from earlier—let out a clean, high-pitched pop as it amplified Tim’s panicked shout across the entire ballroom:
“I’M ALLERGIC TO PERSIMMONS AND I HATE ALL OF YOU!”
The room fell into stunned silence.
One confused, elderly board member clapped once.
A socialite dropped her champagne.
Someone near the front asked, “What even is a persimmon?”
Tim sank in his chair, face red and swelling. “Let me die in peace.”
----
Tim was now wheezing like an antique accordion.
Not even a good accordion—one that had been left out in a storm and then trampled by a Renaissance fair.
His head lolled to the side. “I want... to be cremated... with my espresso machine.”
Jason was kneeling beside him, muttering, “No you don’t, you hate clutter.”
Dick hovered behind him, waving a menu like a fan. “You're gonna be fine! You're gonna be okay! You're just… slightly dying!”
“I can't feel my face,” Tim slurred.
“That’s because it’s puffing up like a pufferfish,” Damian offered helpfully. “You look like a botched filler job.”
Then—like a divine butler-shaped miracle—the doors burst open.
And there stood Alfred Pennyworth.
Perfectly pressed suit. Black doctor’s bag in hand. Calm like the eye of the storm.
The air parted around him.
Even the waiter holding a tray of soufflés stepped aside reverently.
“Mr. Timothy,” Alfred said evenly, approaching like this was his 9 a.m. yoga class and not a medical emergency in front of Gotham’s social elite. “Might I suggest not ingesting rare fruit allergens during black-tie events?”
Tim let out a heroic, drawn-out wheeze in response.
Alfred crouched beside him, opened his bag, and produced the EpiPen with the reverence of a fencing sword.
Jason looked mildly alarmed. “That’s the extra strength one.”
“I am aware,” Alfred said, gripping Tim’s arm gently but with firm British precision. “Do stop moving, Master Timothy. You’ll only make it worse.”
Tim squinted up at the chandeliers. “Tell Bruce I loved... his stupid monologues.”
“Very good, sir,” Alfred said, and stabbed him with the practiced grace of someone who’s definitely done this before.
Tim yelped.
Then froze.
Then gasped like a drowning man tasting oxygen for the first time.
“Oh my God,” he croaked. “I have sinuses again.”
His siblings exhaled in various shades of relief. Damian threw the napkin he'd been holding at his face.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“You’re allergic to persimmons, Tim,” Dick said, still half-laughing, half-traumatized. “Persimmons! What are you, a rare bird?!”
Alfred packed up the EpiPen like a seasoned field medic. “Shall I summon the car, Master Timothy?”
Tim blinked blearily. “No.”
Jason stared. “What do you mean, no?”
“I want... to see the end of the gala,” Tim said, sitting up straight like a gremlin rising from the grave. “I didn’t suffer anaphylaxis in a tuxedo just to leave early.”
There was a pause.
Then Alfred nodded once, with a proud glint in his eye. “Very well, sir.”
“I respect that,” Jason muttered.
“You’re absolutely insane,” Damian said.
“...but kind of iconic,” Dick added.
And so, like the pettiest of phoenixes, Tim Wayne was reborn from his allergic ashes.
He adjusted his tie with trembling fingers. “Someone bring me sparkling water and a program. I’m finishing this night if it kills me.”
----
The gala had reached its final, respectable crescendo:
A charity speech, a subtle tear from an old donor, and the silent auction being won by a woman in a backless gown worth more than Tim’s apartment.
The speech began. A heartfelt address from Gotham’s charity darling. Lights dimmed. The hall hushed. Utensils rested.
Tim… was chewing.
Again.
Very carefully. Suspiciously.
It was just a translucent, pretty little fruit tart. Innocent. Shiny. Glowing like a beacon of you survived tonight, Tim. He took a slow bite, then set the rest down like it might attack him.
And at first… nothing.
The speech continued.
Tim nodded along. Casual. Composed. Entirely not fighting the itch crawling up the back of his neck like a smug centipede.
No one noticed the way he scratched just below his collar.
Or how his hand crept to his jaw. Then his hairline. Then his ears.
He sat straighter.
Scratched his arm. Twice.
Jason leaned over lazily. “You good?”
Tim smiled. Too wide. “I’m fine.”
Scratch. Scratch. Neck. Arm. Shoulder.
Dick blinked. “Are you… twitching?”
“I’m actively not twitching,” Tim said through gritted teeth.
Damian side-eyed him. “Your ears are turning red.”
“It’s hot in here,” Tim said. “You’re all fine. I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.”
He grabbed his water glass, sipped it like someone trying to will away the existence of molecules. But the itch… persisted. Crawling like doom. Soft hum under the skin. Inner elbows. Spine. Eyebrows??
Tim started pressing his palm to the table’s edge to stop himself from clawing at his arms. It was fine. He could handle it. He was calm.
And then—
Jason reached for the last tart. “Oh hey, this the same thing you’re eating?”
Tim jerked. “DON’T EAT THAT.”
The table paused.
“…Why?” Jason squinted at it.
Tim stared at the tart like it was cursed.
“Because it’s… gelatin,” he muttered. “From collagen.”
Jason blinked. “So?”
“I’m allergic to animal-derived gelatin.”
Another pause.
Dick leaned forward slowly. “Tim. You ate half of it.”
“I know,” Tim hissed, now scratching his shin with his other shoe.
Damian was staring in horrified fascination. “Is this the part where you swell up again?”
“No,” Tim muttered. “This one’s the slow burn death. Just itchy. For like… five hours. And then I look like a lobster.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jason asked, baffled.
“Because,” Tim said, itching his eyebrow, “I already had a scene. I'm not going out again because of a jiggly fruit tart!”
And right then—a soft, concerned cough echoed through the mic up front.
The speaker paused. The room turned.
Because once again, the mic had picked up Tim's latest breakdown.
“Jiggly fruit tart?” a senator whispered nearby.
A child at a nearby table said, “Mommy, what’s a gelatin lobsterman?”
Tim clutched his face in both hands. “I hate everything.”
Jason, bless him, started laughing so hard he nearly knocked over the centerpiece.
Dick was crying into his napkin.
“Just admit you’re allergic to vibes,” Damian said.
Tim itched behind his knee with tactical precision. “If I spontaneously combust, donate my clothes to vengeance.”
Alfred, already appearing again with impeccable timing, sighed as he handed Tim discreet antihistamines under the table. “Shall I prepare the ice packs, Master Timothy?”
“Yes,” Tim muttered. “And a written apology from Gotham’s dessert chefs.”
----
The itchiness has slowed down and
Tim knew he shouldn’t do this.
He knew.
The speech was happening. Jason was somehow delivering a decent one. Clean suit. Strong voice. Gesturing just enough to seem respectable. There were cameras, live reporters, and the uncomfortable silence of everyone pretending to care about numbers and youth initiatives.
And Tim…
Tim was peeling the fruit tart out of a napkin like a raccoon in the shadows of the table.
He glanced at Alfred across the ballroom—too far to stop him in time.
He glanced at Dick, sitting beside him, too focused on mouthing “slow down” to Jason from the table like a stage mom.
No one was watching.
No one, except the tiny devil on his shoulder whispering, “you deserve this.”
So he took a bite.
A small one.
He savored it. The light fruit. The airy crust. The subtle slap of cow bone gelatin and immediate regret.
Jason’s voice echoed over the mic.
“…and that's why we believe in second chances.”
Tim chewed.
He knew the reaction wouldn’t hit instantly. That was the problem with gelatin. It was the slow betrayal. A twenty-minute countdown to internal skin crawl hell.
But God. The tart was so good.
Jason continued: “My family’s been through a lot—some of it our fault, some of it just... Gotham being Gotham.”
Tim licked a crumb off his thumb.
That’s when it began.
Buzz.
A prickling hum just under his left ear.
Buzzbuzz .
Down his spine.
His left shoulder twitched.
Jason’s speech: “But no matter what, we’ve always come back stronger—”
Tim scratched his thigh under the table.
His inner elbow began to throb. Softly. Like a whisper of eczema regret.
He tugged his collar.
Jason smiled at the audience. “—even if we occasionally punch each other in the face.”
Laughs. Applause.
Tim scratched his jaw. It sizzled.
Dick turned to look at him and froze. “Tim.”
Tim: “Don’t.”
“Did you eat another tart?”
Tim gave him a withering look. “Maybe.”
“You’re sweating.”
“I’m glowing.”
“You’re scratching your ear like there’s a bug inside.”
“Emotionally, there is.”
Jason was thanking donors now. Wrapping up.
“And to wrap this up—my brother Tim is here tonight too. Say hi, Tim!”
Cameras pivoted.
Dick shoved his chair back just as Tim’s leg kicked involuntarily and hit the underside of the table.
Tim blinked into the floodlights, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. A single hand still awkwardly scratching his neck.
The mic squealed.
Tim inhaled.
And said—
Loudly. Clearly. Into the nearest live mic:
“I swear to god, if this tart kills me, bury me in the dessert tray.”
Dead silence.
Then—
Someone laughed. Someone gasped.
Jason facepalmed on stage.
Dick reached for the tablecloth like he could physically pull Tim off reality.
Cameras clicked. A journalist repeated “Bury me in the dessert tray?” like she was confirming an award title.
“Okay,” Tim muttered, standing abruptly, “That’s it. I’m either dying or being memed forever. Someone roll me into the catering closet.”
Damian appeared at his side like a vulture. “This is why no one takes you seriously.”
“You know what, demon?” Tim’s voice cracked. “When my skin turns inside out in ten minutes, I hope you trip over my twitching corpse.”
Alfred was already halfway across the ballroom again, EpiPen at the ready like a duelist returning to the field.
Jason, still at the mic: “And that’s the kind of resilience we’re talking about. Thank you, and goodnight.”