AN: I've been chipping away at this one on AO3 for a while, and I just finished it the other night. Essentially, it's a Secretary!Tim AU that has a lot more emotions than initially planned. O-O Yeah.

Inthenightguest: Thank you so much for your kind words! This one isn't a crack, but it's got that comedy vibe at some points, I suppose. Hope you like it! And you take care as well! ^^

The Bat's Out of the Bag (At the Drop of a Tinfoil Hat)

Tim knew full well going into this job that billionaires are their own breed. He remembers that much from childhood: the furtive looks, champagne gossip, and bankroll payoffs. All under wraps. All kept quiet. The memories are old, but they still stand to remind him that the life of billionaires is one big puzzle, a mystery waiting to be solved.

So, Tim knew Bruce Wayne would be no exception.

The thing Tim's realized, though, is that his boss doesn't fit that neat mold of secrets and cover-ups. Oh, there's something off about him. That much is certain. He's almost too nice, too genuine. Too much for a billionaire with a penchant for fast cars and pretty women. Instead, the man invites Tim to Wayne Manor more often than not, a fatherly concern about him. Tim accepts sometimes and even finds he enjoys it there with the simple life and old furniture. But as tempting as it is to accept that at face value—that Bruce Wayne is just a misunderstood socialite, there's still something more there. More than money can account for. More than Tim can account for too.

Being a secretary means Tim's fettered to the man at all times. He likes to think he knows his schedule inside and out, every inch, every second. It's why this continues to throw Tim for a loop.

Some days, Bruce strolls into work with a faint bruise. Stiff joints. Split lip. One time, a broken arm. It's as if every night Tim leaves Wayne Enterprises with a lottery ticket and comes back in the morning to see what prize gets dumped in his lap. Today's model is four, nicely carved scratches on the left cheek. There's been vain effort put into covering them with makeup, and in Bruce's defense, from a distance, it looks pretty believable. Up close, however, not a chance.

"Damian."

Tim glances up from the paperwork he's been shuffling through, eyes razors as he waits to see what kind of explanation his boss has come up with this time.

"One of his cats got me," Bruce mutters, gesturing toward his face where the pitiful injury stands.

The car they're in the back of jolts to a stop at that exact moment, like the universe itself refuses to accept that as a plausible reason. Unless the cat's claws are an inch apart a pop, there's no way that explains it. Tim, for one, agrees. Besides, he's fairly certain Bruce had similar scratches last month ("Cut myself shaving," he'd said.), and Tim's eyes thin just a bit more.

"Cats can be finicky, I hear," the teenager phrases carefully, and he snaps a form to a clipboard with a tad more gusto than necessary, a mouse trap sprung.

To Bruce's credit, the man keeps face the whole time. It's almost amazing how he never cracks, even when at least three of his ribs have over the course of the past two months. Tim's kept track of them all in some sort of obsessive compulsion, because there's got to be an explanation. Bruce always looks a fraction more haggard than is healthy, and it's not uncommon for Tim to catch the man with one eye closed like he's an avid practitioner of dolphin sleep. Who knows? Maybe he is. Either way, there's a mystery here that needs solving, and Tim's nothing if not up for a challenge.

Still, something tells Tim it's not healthy to keep track of your boss' nightly injuries.

"Dude, that's not healthy," Ives mutters while shoveling a nacho-abomination in his mouth with more judgement than necessary. A collection of plates clatter from somewhere behind the diner counter, the sound ringing as if in agreement, and Tim hides a wince behind the rim of his soda. There's shame in the fact they've had this conversation before.

"I'm telling you something's up."

"Yeah," Ives continues, brandishing a tortilla chip, "I'll tell you what's up: You work for Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy. Notorious with the ladies. He leaves work fine in the evening, and by morning, he's a little roughed up, a little tired." Ives shoots him a look as if to say, "You know where I'm going with this." Tim does, but he steels his face and digs in his heels.

"Oh, come on, Tim! He's got scratches on his face—"

"And broken bones," Tim reminds.

"So? Us guys are dumb when we're drunk, especially if there are those of the female persuasion about. Why do you think bar fights are a thing?" Ives tosses an orphaned jalapeno in his mouth, expression daring Tim to argue. Tim doesn't, but that doesn't mean he's given up. He knows he's right. Lucius practically proved it at their last shareholder meeting.

The moment Tim mentioned Bruce's "cat-scratched" face to him, the poor soul started sweating bullets like Tim was a taxman come to call. Not even the revenue office elicits that kind of response from him. No. Lucius knows. If only Bruce hadn't swept in then with his purebred charm and perfect timing, Tim might've actually gotten somewhere. He'll have to corner Lucius again when he gets the chance, maybe get Tam and Tiffany on his side. That could work…

"Tim, buddy," Ives mutters through the last of his nachos, looking like the utterly jaded 90's kid he is. "Seriously, let it go. Not everything's a conspiracy. I mean, remember that apocalypse stint you had back in 2012 because of…what was it—the Chinese calendar?"

"Mayan," Tim corrects immediately. "And that wasn't a stint; that was a pipe dream. Big difference. This, though—" Tim jabs at the table for emphasis. "—This is for real. What if Bruce is in deep with the mafia or something? Someone could be blackmailing him and he needs help and I won't be there. Or maybe he's been drafted into an aristocratic cult that murders people or something. Like with owls or—"

"…Owls?"

"They're creepy. But whatever. My point is that something's wrong. I can feel it in my gut."

"Maybe you should start filling your 'gut' with something other than grape Fanta." Ives pushes his finished plate forward with both hands as if to add, "Check and mate."

Tim doesn't really know how to counter that (Do red herrings deserve countering?), so he just sets to grabbing his bag and throws a twenty on the table. "Agree to disagree—"

"Until next week's lunch, that is."

"Until next week," Tim parrots. "For now, though, I still think something more's going on, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

"Whatever floats your boat, man. Just don't do anything too crazy, alright?"

Tim acknowledges the sentiment with a perfunctory wave, and he begins pushing his way out the restaurant door. The whole thing sounds conspiratorial. Tim knows it, and yet he's never been more serious about anything in his life, can feel the intuition bursting in his insides like fireworks. He's going to figure out Bruce's secret, vows it right then and there.

Even it is kills him.

In hindsight, that last hyperbole was in poor taste. Tim would rather not die, and he'd really rather not die the way it looks like he might.

The teenager hadn't even planned on coming to this gala. It was more a last minute thing, Bruce mentioning he'd appreciate the company and that it might benefit Tim to see how the charity banquets are run. Wayne Enterprises puts on enough of them, after all. Tim had agreed it couldn't hurt for him to learn a bit, and to his credit, Bruce was right about one thing: Coming hadn't hurt him.

That doesn't mean the gala hasn't taken a turn for the worse, though.

The woman a table across is currently dumping her jewelry into a sack, fingers shaking as she fumbles with the clasp on the back of her necklace. Tim's half watching the panic on her face, half watching the rifle pointed her way. Everyone is doing the same, struck into this calm type of shock like sheep pre-slaughter. Tim's not sure if the passiveness is from shrewdness or outright fear. Probably a bit of both, although Tim likes to think his is more the former.

His eyes swing over to the other side of the room.

The heist's leader is wandering over linen tables, going in a line as she pours champagne on the head of each alderman and takes a finishing swig for herself. There are enough people participating in the robbery that the woman doesn't have to be too careful, but it'd be pretty easy to flip one of the tables over, knock her off and put up a bit of a fight. A few other party-goers send Tim fleeting looks as if to say they have the same idea but collectively decide they can't pull it off; there's too much risk. So, they sit silently and watch people toss in their Rolexes and wedding rings and lives without a fuss.

The only silver lining is that Bruce isn't caught up in this mess. He left to use the restroom nearly ten minutes ago, and Tim hopes his boss can hide out there until the festivities are over.

Eventually, the teen catches one of the henchmen nod toward the ringleader, a promise of end.

"Well, kids," the leader starts at the cue. "It's been a great time, really. But we're a classy bunch and sure would hate to overstay our welcome." The machine gun that's been resting over her shoulder is swung back down, and she steps back off the tables with a casual air. "Now, this is how it's gonna work: No one move; no one gets introduced to a mag of lead. Sound fair?"

Silence follows.

"That's what I figured," she beams blithely. Even Tim stays frozen as her group inches toward the exit, the burnish of each gun barrel painfully obvious.

Of course, it's right then that things go from your-average-night-in-Gotham to down-right complicated. One of the group members must decide a hostage sounds like a great plan, hand snapping out and grabbing one of the older patrons—the woman who'd been fumbling with her necklace before. Tim talked to her an hour ago; she made a private comment to him that she's been trying to drink less at these kinds of affairs. Bad for her blood pressure, she'd said. Tim doubts being taken hostage is helping her in that endeavor, can read it in the way her face has blanched, and as much as sanity says not to, Tim throws his hat in the ring.

"Wait!"

Five sets of semi-automatics whirl his way, making his heart pump a circuit of cold blood through him. Tim didn't have a plan, not even the ghost of one, but his mouth is an old hand at swinging deals and it tells his brain it's got him covered.

"Take me instead."

…

Tim's sowing his mouth shut indefinitely.

Meanwhile, the leader's eyebrow has popped up in stoic question. She almost looks surprised. "And just who are you?"

"I work for Bruce Wayne," Tim manages, rattled but somehow not tripping over the words. "I'm a close friend of his, like a son, even—" (Well, something like that… Maybe.) "—I get it. You need someone to make sure the police don't shoot you the second you're out the door, right? A hostage is nice and all, sure. But if you want a ransom to boot, the one on my head would be hard to beat."

The ringleader looks unimpressed for a long moment, casting a small glance to the panicked woman in her henchman's care. Their current kidnapee looks on the verge of fainting.

"Fine," the leader mutters eventually. The older woman is tossed back into the fray of terrified guests and what must be her spouse. Tim only has a second to process his success before a burly hand latches onto his elbow and a firearm is pressed against the fabric of his suit jacket. How does the phrase go? Out of the frying pan, into the fire?

The fire of a semi-automatic, more like.

To drive off that thought, Tim's trying to plan (as if he has a choice) how the next day of his life is going to go. If it's eight in the evening now, he can maybe be free by morning sometime. Catch a few z's. Take the day off, maybe. Yeah, that sounds good. He's never missed his jerry-built apartment before, but right now, he'd kill to be there in his sweatpants and feeding his fish that may or may not have gone belly-up days ago. (It's hard to tell if it just likes swimming upside down or has actually kicked the bucket.) What he wouldn't do to have that right now...

A quick yank toward the exit is sadly what Tim does have right now. It's a hint the teen quickly takes, being pulled more than escorted toward the elevator outside the ballroom. The first-floor button's bashed in, the "door closing" chime going off, and as much as six people in an elevator is a bit of a crowd, Tim isn't going to complain. Instead, he tries his best to zone out to the elevator music playing. Whoever chose Bossa Nova as the go-to lift soundtrack has obviously never had a gun pointed directly at their spleen. Just another bone Tim isn't going to pick right now.

Turns out, it's one he doesn't have to.

The elevator lights flit off around the fourteenth floor, same with the music, and the whole cab grinds to a halt. The ringleader spits out a cuss under her breath (It's not hard to make out in the relative silence.), and flicks on a flashlight that sweeps over all of their faces. Tim winces when the beam lances his eyes.

"What's going on, kid?"

"Don't know," the teenager mumbles, cringe permanently fixed on his face; the light's still blinding him. "Maybe the cops cut the electricity. Or it could just be—"

The sound of footsteps landing on the ceiling make everyone jump. Some genius decides to get trigger-happy and fires off a slew of rounds in the direction of the noise. Soon enough, just about everyone's following suit, aiming roughshod. Tim's gone near-deaf from the rattling, something in his stomach jolting from the discord, and he's mostly blind now too as the flashlight's vanished. All he sees are the shifting of shadows, someone slipping into the cab like oil sliding over dark water. Another strobe-flash of gunfire illuminates the chaos for a split second. People crashing against walls. White eyes in black.

Tim recognizes those eyes for what—whose—they are. Any Gothamite would, so Tim tries his best to keep as out of the way as possible, fighting off that chill you get when you're near something supernatural.

It feels like an eternity passes before the lights sputter back on. Two people are on the ground, one next to Tim, one across, and both seemingly unconscious. Another is currently hidden by an imposing, caped figure that beckons memories of things more demonic than human.

Tim stares for a moment, words vaguely processing in his ears. Batman (Holy crap…) is demanding to know where the group's hideout is. Now that Tim looks, the question's not a bad one: The leader vanished in the tumult, meaning the immediate excitement is over for the most part. Tim just has to wait it out. Then, the regular mundanity of his life will be allowed to resume with the most extreme activities being feeding his maybe-dearly-departed fish and taking two dictations at once.

Either of those sound heavenly compared to right now. He feels uncannily exhausted, like there are too many people here and they're clouding up the space with heat and humidity. It must be true. The air's waving unnaturally, like steam off pavement.

Just don't get in the way.

Halfway through that idea, Tim feels more than hears the shuffle of someone next to him. Still-adjusting eyes slip to the henchman who not one minute prior had him at gunpoint. The man's staggered to a stand using the wall for support, and something is heavy in his hand. It takes a moment for Tim to recognize the black sheen of the firearm for what it is, and after that, whatever else happens is boiled down to a short two seconds.

The only conscious thought Tim has within that span is that the gun's pointed directly at Batman's back. That's it.

As soon as that registers, the rest is instinct.

Tim doesn't know how he does it, himself. Even the henchman seems shocked by the full five-foot-six of teenager that he gets hit with like a train wreck in slow motion. Somehow, Tim tackles the man quickly enough that the gun skews and fires off target. The shock of it attracts the attention of a certain Bat, white eyes flashing like magnesium flame as they turn. The henchman's instantly wrenched from Tim's grip and slammed into the floor with more violence than Tim would think necessary.

Tim's not really thinking anymore, though. More just stunned and feeling like he needs to lie down as soon as possible.

"Are you alright?" Batman grunts out, attention stubbornly glued to the unconscious human sprawled at his feet. He looks especially upset about something. Then again, maybe that's just the vigilante mindset, all justice and vengeance at 70 miles per hour.

"Yeah. I'm fine," Tim replies, but the words come out a bit funny because man, it's really hard to breathe.

Batman must hear the haggardness in his voice, as the vigilante turns around with alarm. Tim doesn't know why he seems so concerned (Now that he looks closer, Batman has a fresh gash over his forearm, likely from the misfired gun. He should probably treat that…), but the man's gaze locks on and starts burning a hole in Tim's gut like an ulcer.

Maybe it's true that Batman has heat vision. The suspicious lot of Gotham have posited it for years, and that would certainly explain the way Tim's stomach feels like it's melting straight into his intestines.

All Batman's done, though, is raise his hands in a universal sign of placation. "Keep calm," he orders as he steps closer. The sentence contains the emotional acuity of a golf club—not very reassuring—and the man's gaze remains firmly affixed to Tim's stomach like there's a spider there or a scorpion and the vigilante is two shakes away from round-house kicking it off.

Naturally, Tim feels unnerved at that, particularly because telling someone to "keep calm" implies there's an obvious reason not to keep calm. Tim's fingers drift to his torso, faintly curious as to what all the fuss is about, but the world is making it really difficult to move. It just won't stop quivering, and the air must be getting denser, too, because it feels like Tim's forcing his limbs through aspic.

Why that is becomes clear when his fingers pull away. They're coated a weird, glistening red. Kind of pretty if Tim doesn't think too hard about it. Warm. And there's…

Well.

There's a lot of it.

Tim's vaguely aware of Batman appearing directly in front of him, throwing a cape around his shoulders and helping him to the ground. The man's mouth forms words Tim couldn't make out to save his life. He thinks he catches something about an ambulance, maybe even his name—as much as Tim understands Batman wouldn't know that. He doesn't think too hard on it.

Tim's vision just refixes on his own fuzzing hand, utterly dumbfounded as he tries to process what the development means.

It means he might not see a lot of things again. His shoddy apartment. His office at Wayne Enterprises. His childhood home, even.

Looking back, those are all the places that should've come to mind.

But they're not.

Instead, he thinks of a warm fireplace, gentle smiles over breakfast, and the glow of morning sunlight through windows. It's strange considering how rarely Tim's ever been to Wayne Manor, but that's it: That's the only place he can think to hold on to. It brings to mind good memories, lucid pats on the shoulder and the way Bruce's eyes crinkle when he's genuinely happy.

That last one makes something in Tim twist.

For whatever reason—conspiracy, clumsiness, drunken stupor, whatever —his boss has a predilection for getting random wounds. This is a situation where people get wounds they can die from. Might die from. The ringleader got out, too, Tim remembers hazily, might be making it back to the gala to nab another hostage or do the kind of unpredictable things people do when they get desperate. He's struck with a woozy sense of worry at the thought. Bruce is only a thirty second elevator ride away, painfully close, but Tim's pretty sure he can't keep conscious long enough to find out, and…

Tim glances over to the vigilante arranging Tim's hand over the bleeding with precise care. Bruce could be needing this instead.

"…Batman…?"

Tim has the man's attention immediately.

"Make...sure Bruce Wayne s'okay?" What's left of his vision catches Batman tense. The image is quickly fizzling out into hot sparks and empty sounds, and Tim snaps his eyes closed in an effort to focus. "45th floor…m'worried…"

The physical world slides farther and farther out from underneath him, breaths catching more often than not. All he knows is that the person next to him hasn't moved in the slightest. Tim makes to push the man away, tries to lift his arm, but both air and thought cut out halfway through the motion. His knuckles slipping to the floor is the last thing he feels.

Tim's still on his back when he comes to. There's a muzzy pain on his left side, a thickness to his head like his skull's been drilled into, and everything hurts in that fuzzy way dreams you can't remember still chase you.

A beep sounds somewhere beside him.

Once.

Twice.

It keeps going, and the noise dredges Tim's tactile senses up with it, the slight heft of wires rolling over his arms and a thin blanket covering his chest and legs. The AC air is overwhelming enough for Tim to stave off waking up entirely. He's just struggling to get his bearings and not feel sick to his stomach.

After a long while, he musters the strength to blink his eyes open. The environment wavers into focus: a simple ceiling, dimmed lights, monitors, IV drip. Your average hospital room.

Tim inhales with disgust at the sight but only gets chemical smell. It makes his insides do a nauseous flip, and the pain in his left side grows more pronounced. It's like someone's sitting on his chest and has splintered a rib inward, maybe even punctured something. He tries to shift his limbs, just to check the extent of his injuries, but a numb throb echoes across his chest at the attempt, and an involuntary groan follows.

The noise drives someone to shift in the room. A door creak. More voices.

Instantly, it's as if the someone's multiplied into threes. Split right then and there.

Everything's too hazy to see much more than vague shapes and flashes of metal. It's easy to hear the cluster of noises, though, scuffs of shoes on linoleum, voices blurring together and asking questions Tim doesn't know how to answer; he can hardly make them out. One of them pulls back the blanket over him (Cold.), chilled finger pads skittish over his skin, and the wires over his abdomen shift like they're alive when someone pulls them the right way.

Tim tries to work his eyes shut again to drown it all out.

That's when another person enters the room—He can tell by the beam of light from a door opening, a square plat that burns through his eyelids.

"Tim?" one of them ask, and as much as the teen wants to slip back under the grip of anesthesia, he knows he has to answer that voice. The register's processing slowly, his mind bogged down by analgesics, but Tim knows he recognizes it. That familiar lilt his boss tries to hide because some of Alfred's Queen's English has rubbed off over the years. Just a bit around the way he lets vowels drift. Once that clicks, the teen's gaze journeys to his side, his head following lamely until his cheek meets pillow.

Someone's parked in the chair directly next to him, black hair and blue eyes. There's an audible wrinkle of dress pants on cheap chair plastic when the man leans closer.

"Bruce…?" Tim manages thickly, screwing his eyes shut again to block out the sudden pain. Someone clicks a button, and the wave subsides. "...tha' you?"

One of the doctors Tim can scarcely identify sends Bruce a thousand-word look (Don't keep him up late, in essence.), and then she ushers her squadron out the door. It closes behind them with an audible click.

"How're you feeling?" Bruce starts smally.

Tim mumbles something pained and noncommittal in answer. Both his head and tongue feel heavy, and the raw feeling in his larynx makes forming words a challenge. "Wha' happened...?"

There's a long silence, like Bruce is warring with himself over how to address the query, like he wants to let Tim rest more before saying anything. Bruce is a pragmatist to a T, however. Tim knows it. "You were shot," the man decides, straight to the point. "The police were able to intervene before anyone else got hurt. You were the only injury."

Tim can't really recall what happened. With the way Bruce describes it, though, it definitely sounds fortunate. It leaves Tim wondering what all about him is injured. His mind still feels strangely distant from his body, lost somewhere in the web of monitor beeps, so he can't really tell. All that's obvious is that breathing feels like someone's lighting matches under his lungs.

It's as if Bruce can hear the thought, as he elaborates, "The doctors had to take out your spleen, but they said you should be fine. Just need some vaccines, antibiotics. And a lot of rest." The way he stresses the point brings a new question to the foreground. There's a whirl of chemicals in the air that kick Tim in the gut any time the nasal cannula lets them, crawls up Tim's skin like fire ants.

"...Long do I'ave ta stay?"

Bruce drones with sympathy in his voice. If the man knows anything about him, it's that Tim's hated hospitals ever since Dad passed away; they're bad memory incarnate. The chemical smell's the one thing he's never been able to forget.

"You'll be here for a few more days of observation, maybe a week," Bruce explains, wringing Tim's hand reassuringly. "After that, you'll need another month to recover at home. Limited work. No driving. Showers only until your stitches heal." (It sounds like he's got the pamphlet memorized already.) "Alfred and I think it would be in your best interest to stay with us until you're well again, although the decision's ultimately yours."

Tim bites back the nausea that returns at the idea of being trapped here for days on end. It's like a prison sentence, but maybe it won't be so bad because Wayne Manor. That sounds nice.

"Glad you think so," Bruce agrees, because Tim must've mumbled that bit out loud somehow. "We'd be happy to have you."

Tim thanks him smally, trying not to get dizzy at the word. He'll probably regret accepting the invitation later, but he's too tired to care about his pride right now. All he's thinking about is how nice it'd be to go somewhere with warm blankets and Alfred's cooking. Tim almost dozes back off at the thought, but he's uneasy enough to work his eyes back open. When he does, he catches the worry trapped in the wrinkles of Bruce's forehead and around his mouth. Tim wonders how long he's been here; it's still dark outside the window.

"...you okay?"

Bruce's face softens faintly. "Yeah," he answers, fingers brushing Tim's hair back off his forehead. The touch feels warm against his skin, and Tim fights the urge to lean into it. "You just gave us a scare. That's all."

Tim hums sleepily at that. His eyelashes keep flickering over his vision, satin-soft, and Bruce's hand is still combing his hair into place. After a careful moment, the fingers drift away. Tim registers Bruce's troubled expression when he does, but the teen notices something else, too. He almost thinks he imagines it, but no: There's a small streak of red spotting Bruce's sleeve right around his forearm.

Tim watches the stain for a minute, dazed. He thinks he should tell Bruce that he's bleeding (It looks like an expensive shirt.), but mid-thought something just...clicks.

Everything about that night hits him like a shovel or a brick or a well-sized semi. All of it from Batman to the gunshot to his last words before passing out. Tim suppresses his embarrassment at that last one if nothing more than to keep his brain focused on the main point of his epiphany.

Tim knows one other person who got injured tonight: a graze on the arm. The longer Tim's muddled brain runs the numbers, the more certain he gets. The bruises, cracked ribs, exhaustion. It all lines up.

Tim analyzes Bruce as intensely as one can while being only partly conscious. The man looks harmlessly curious at the gaze, maybe a touch nervous. "What's wrong?"

"...your arm…."

Bruce's focus flashes to his injury, the hastiness of the action betraying him.

It tells Tim he's right.

The teen continues to observe him with a blank look, and slowly, Bruce seems like he's connected the same dots Tim has. The man opens his mouth as if to offer an explanation, an excuse, but the wound is condemning, and there's nothing he could say; he snaps his mouth closed, expression serious.

Blue eyes meet again, one holding his breath while the other remains silent.

"You're him…" Tim murmurs, a way about him that makes it seem like, somehow, he's known the truth all along. He's considered the option before. Mulled it over until his theory was crushed by a newspaper report citing Batman and Bruce Wayne at two different places simultaneously. It's obvious now, though. Of course Batman would make a point to hide his identity like that. Tim's cursing himself for not having held on to the theory for just a little while longer, although maybe it's a good thing. The idea was so short-lived that he never mentioned it to Ives. It'll make ground control easier; Tim's pride can take the hit.

After a telling minute in which Bruce has remained uneasy in his seat, Tim sighs, long and slow and tired. "...won't tell," he promises, scratching casually at the skin around his IV. "Think that goes against my contract, 'n I like my job."

Bruce's shoulders relax at the humor. Still, he continues to look slightly uncomfortable. The man's mouth twists after a long lapse of silence, and when he speaks next, his words are heavy, Batman-esque despite coming from Bruce Wayne's body.

"I'm sorry."

Tim's eyebrows furrow in question, attention floating back.

"I was emotional and distracted. It could've cost you your life tonight."

Tim digests the sentiment slowly. Bruce saved his life; he shouldn't be feeling guilty. "...'s'okay, Bruce."

Bruce shakes his head. "No, it's not," he affirms. "I could have lost you. I won't let it happen again."

There's really nothing Tim can say to that, can't as he's afraid addressing the sentence might make his face turn red. It's a lot more emotion than is common for Bruce. Tim's pretty sure tonight was responsible for galvanizing that change, and if his face wasn't red before, he's pretty sure it is now, as he's running over his last words like a broken record. Tim's gaze instantly flits to the sky outside the window as if to visually slap the memory away. It doesn't do much good. In the end, the world has to take pity on him and provide a distraction: A beam of light sears the night, a sign they both recognize swimming in the clouds.

"They need you," Tim says quietly, watching the Bat signal through half-closed eyes.

Bruce hums in reply, almost regretful, like he's not sure if he should leave or not. Tim would rather he stay, but he knows Bruce better than that. In true press conference fashion, the CEO never mentioned if the group responsible for the heist was arrested. The signal could be about that.

"I'll be back soon," Bruce says eventually, voice serious as he moves to a stand. It's easy to see him as Batman the more Tim thinks about it, what with the large frame and firm grimace that shadows his face on occasion. The revelation of what all he faces on a regular basis causes a lump to rise in Tim's throat.

"Bruce?"

The man looks back from where he's already slid the window pane open. Some of the Batman-ness dissolves. "Yes?"

"Be careful...?"

"...I will."

The promise assuages some of his worry, gives Tim little reason to keep his eyes open, and he instantly finds himself drifting. "Meeting with Wayne Foundation tomorrow… No black eyes."

"Alright."

"...no blood either."

Tim can practically hear the smile. "Sure. Anything else?"

It's difficult to think with the dregs of anesthetic pulling him down, but Tim comes up with one more, if nothing else but to keep Bruce here a moment longer. "...feed my fish?"

That garners attention. "Fish?"

"Name's Alvin."

"Alvin. Got it."

"'e's a beta. Red. Don't forget."

There's the sound of what Tim can only guess must be a humored sigh. After a beat, there's a hand resting over his own, strong and steady, followed by a statement that carries on the cusp of sleep. "Get some rest, Tim. I'll be here when you wake up."

And despite all the revelations of that night, Tim still knows Bruce well enough to recognize a promise.