Written for the 2013 DCU Fic Hunt. A big thanks to Blackash28 and The Almighty Pharaoh for betaing this for me. Standard disclaimer applies, none of the characters belong to me.

Winding his way through the party guests, Tim breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the sanctuary of the open bar. Honestly, who decides to have a lawn party in the middle of a heat wave? Tim pulled at the dampened collar of his shirt and signaled the bartender over.

"Water with ice, please," Tim ordered.

While the man moved to fill his order, Tim slid his phone out to check the time. It'd been almost two hours since he, Bruce, and Damian had arrived. Brucie hadn't made a public appearance in a while, so...Tim did a quick estimation in his head. Bruce would probably want to stay at least another hour, maybe two.

Tim slid his phones back into his pocket as the bartender came back over, accepting the drink with a quiet "Thanks." Turning to rejoin the rest of the party, he edged around a group of women coming to crowd around the bar. Snatches of their conversation made him pause, though, and had him drifting towards a nearby table to subtly listen in.

"-heard the little Wayne boy-"

"-know he was supposed to be here-"

"-yes, saw him earlier-"

"-boy's just shy with-"

Tim grimaced and took a sip of his water. The thick summer air did not make high society any easier to deal with, and, knowing Damian, the little brat was probably trying to dispose of a body.

With that in mind, Tim moved away from the ladies and turned to stroll around the grounds, keeping his eyes peeled for a certain brat.

Tim had searched the entirety of the main lawn with no sign of Damian anywhere amongst the party goers. The dead body theory was sounding more and more likely. Sighing, he set off down one of the less used paths.

It was only after the noise of the party had faded away that Tim came upon him. Damian sat, shoulders hunched, on a bench beneath a copse of trees. Glaring at the ground, he scuffed his shoe through a rut of dirt in a practiced motion.

Wonderful. The little demon's in a snit. Sighing in resignation, Tim walked over and plopped down on the bench with him.

Damian's eyes narrowed, but he didn't look up. "Find another bench, Drake, this one is taken."

"Yeah, well, this isn't a social visit," Tim said. "You've been missed."

"-Tt-." Damian turned to look up at him. "And who is it that is missing me? You? Father? Or is it the nattering, old buffoons who cannot hold their liquor and the uncivilized beasts they call their offspring?"

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Last I saw, you and those beasts were getting along all right."

"They are uncultured swine whose only contribution to society is to show the appalling state of the school system," Damian snarled. "They are nothing more than ignorant, empty-headed, foolish children who make idiotic assumptions and speak of things they cannot possibly know."

Tim eyed Damian's seething form. So one of the other brats actually managed to get to him.

Tim leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs, and gazed at the garden around them. This was completely out of his depth. Even if he knew what to say, there was no way Damian would accept any comfort from Tim. There wasn't anything Tim could do to make Damian feel any better, much less get him back to the party to mingle for appearance's sake.

But he knew exactly what Dick would do.

Bracing his hands on his knees, Tim rose from the bench. "All right, come on."

Damian stared up at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and stayed seated.

"I said come on; we're getting out of here."

"I'm not going back to that-"

"Yeah, I know, which is why we're going home."

Still wary, Damian stood, and the two began to walk back towards the main party in silence. As they came to just outside the main tent, though, Damian stopped. Tim turned to look back at him, eyebrow raised.

"Father will not just let us leave."

"It'll be fine. Just wait here and call Alfred. Tell him we're coming home early," Tim said before slipping into the tent.

Weaving through the wealthy guests, Tim's eyes scanned the room for Bruce. Tim finally found him in a group of some of Gotham's most affluent citizens, including the host of the event, a Mr. Walter Keller.

Coming up behind Brucie, Tim tapped him on the shoulder. Brucie turned his head, blinding smile in place. Leaning in, Tim said, "Hey, Bruce, I-"

"Well, if it isn't Wayne's up and coming wonder boy!" Keller called, grinning broadly. "Join us, join us. Have some champagne!" He signaled one of the mingling waiters.

Tim held up a hand, apologetic smile firmly in place. "I'm afraid I can't stay. As I was about to tell Bruce, my little brother's not feeling very well, so I was going to take him home."

Brucie's brow furrowed in exaggerated concern. "Damian's sick?"

"Yeah, the heat got to him to him a bit, but he should be fine," Tim said. "Will you be all right if I take the car?"

Keller laughed. "We'll get your pop home all right, lad, don't you worry!"

"You heard him, I'll be fine," Brucie said, clapping Tim on the shoulder. "Take good care of your brother," he leaned in and, still smiling, said in a low voice, "and not a scratch, understand?"

Tim pulled back with a wide grin. "Of course, Bruce." He turned to the rest of the group and nodded. "It was nice to see you all."

With that, Tim strode out of the tent to where Damian was standing off to the side, the younger boy's crossed arms and deep scowl warding off any of the other guests. Catching his eye, Tim jerked his head towards the parking lot, and the two high tailed it out of there.

The gentle roar of the engine was a soothing background noise, even as Tim grinned and gunned the sleek sports car along the roads faster than Bruce would have appreciated. Damian spent the entire ride back in silence, curled away and staring out the window. It wasn't until Tim pulled into the garage and turned off the car that Damian opened his mouth.

"What did you do that for, Drake?"

Tim leaned back into his seat, looking over to Damian. "Do what?"

Damian scowled. "Don't play dumb. This," he waved his hands, "all of this. Why did you do it?"

"It's tradition," Tim said.

Damian's eyes narrowed. "Explain."

"After I became Robin, Dick would sometimes bust me out of events like those." Tim smiled, shaking his head. "He'd use the most awful excuses, too. He started back when Jason was adjusting to high society life, tried to give him a bit of a breather where he could. And then he just," he waved a hand, "carried it over to me and Cass."

"That still does not explain why you did it."

Tim sighed and said, "Yeah, well, you looked like you could use a bit of family tradition," and climbed out of the car.

Striding towards the rest of the Manor, Tim called back as Damian slammed his door shut, "C'mon, tradition's not over."

"Hey, Alfred," Tim said, settling onto one of the kitchen barstools.

"You're just in time, Master Tim." He gestured to the wire racks on the counter filled with cookies. "They just came out," Alfred said as he moved towards the cabinets. "Just the one plate?"

Damian stormed into the room before hoisting himself on to one of the other barstools and slouching against the counter. Grimacing, Tim met Alfred's eyes.

"Right," Alfred said, turning back to the dishes. "Two it is."

Damian reached out for one of the cookies, only to have Tim knock his hand away. Tensing, Damian glared up at Tim, "Drake."

Before Tim could reply, a tub of ice cream was set between them. "Enjoy, sirs," Alfred said, setting a plate and spoon set in front of them both.

"Now," Tim set one of the warm cookies on his plate, "have you ever had a homemade ice cream sandwich?"