Chapter Text
Stephanie Brown had never in her life seen anyone look so bored in a multimillion-dollar meeting.
From her perch by the glass wall, she watched Tim lean back in his sleek Wayne Enterprises chair, pen tapping against his folder in a rhythm only he could hear. His suit jacket was still perfectly pressed, his tie still crisp, but his expression was all flat patience. The kind of patience that screamed he’d been here too long and didn’t care enough to hide it.
Cass sat next to Steph, silent and unreadable as always, but Steph could practically feel her itching for mischief. That made two of them.
She nudged Cass with her elbow. “We’re doing it.”
Cass tilted her head. A slow smile tugged at her lips.
Before Tim could sense danger, Steph threw the conference room door open and called out, way too brightly, “Drake! You’re needed immediately for a very urgent emergency.”
Tim blinked up, and the whole row of Very Serious Business People turned in sync to stare at the blonde in ripped jeans and the dark-haired girl in a leather jacket. Tim’s pen stilled.
“Stephanie,” he said, in the exact same tone he used when she left muddy boots in the Batmobile.
“Yes, hi, that’s me,” she chirped, striding in like she owned the place. “Cass, get him.”
Cass moved faster than anyone else in the room could process. One moment Tim was gathering his folders with long-suffering dignity, the next he was on his feet, tugged by Cass’s deceptively small hand on his sleeve.
“This is—” Tim tried, voice caught somewhere between authority and exasperation.
“Urgent,” Cass supplied.
“Very urgent,” Steph added. She leaned conspiratorially toward the wide-eyed junior executive nearest the door. “Life or death, actually. You’ll get him back in one piece. Probably.”
Tim groaned as they frog-marched him out into the hallway. “I had three more—”
“Nope,” Steph cut in. “You’ve had enough boring billionaire time. Today, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you are our sugar daddy.”
Tim stopped dead just outside the conference room. “I’m your what?”
Cass nodded solemnly. “Sugar daddy.”
Steph grinned. “Yeah. You’re buying us things. Clothes, shoes, food. We’re poor vigilantes. You’re loaded. It’s the natural order of things.”
“I—no—” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about regretting every choice that led him here. But he didn’t turn back. That was the first victory.
By the time they hit downtown, Steph had Cass scrolling her phone for boutiques while she cranked the music up in Tim’s car. He drove with the same careful, deliberate precision he used for everything, jaw set, eyes flicking between traffic and his sisters’ chaos.
Steph leaned between the front seats, practically shouting over the bass. “We’re starting with shoes. Then dresses. Then food. So much food. You’re paying.”
Tim’s lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “You know there are limits to my credit card, right?”
Cass gave him a flat look. “Lie.”
Steph cackled.
The first store nearly kicked them out after Cass and Steph turned the changing rooms into a runway. Cass slipped into a flowing red dress that moved like water, then appeared silently behind Tim and tapped his shoulder. He turned, startled, and for a second the guarded businessman fell away—his eyes softened, genuine admiration breaking through.
“Beautiful,” he said, before he caught himself and added stiffly, “It suits you.”
Steph twirled out in a sequined monstrosity that glittered like a disco ball. “And me?”
Tim deadpanned, “You look like a traffic hazard.”
She threw a hanger at him. He didn’t even flinch.
Hours blurred into shopping bags, Cass’s silent smirks, Steph’s loud commentary, and Tim trailing behind like an unwilling pack mule who secretly didn’t mind. He carried everything, paid without glancing at totals, and only protested when Steph tried to slip a pair of neon sneakers onto his pile.
“No,” he said.
“Yes,” she shot back.
“Absolutely not.”
“Cass, help me out here.”
Cass picked up the sneakers, examined them with serious eyes, then set them back. “Ugly,” she declared.
Steph groaned. “Traitor.”
They ended up sprawled in a booth at an all-night diner, fries and milkshakes between them. Tim loosened his tie, finally, finally looking less like a CEO and more like their brother.
Steph sucked whipped cream off her straw. “Admit it. You had fun.”
Tim glanced at her over the rim of his coffee. “Define fun.”
Cass reached over and plucked the tie right off his neck, tossing it onto the seat beside her. “This.”
Steph grinned. “See? We rescued you. You should be grateful.”
Tim shook his head, but his smile gave him away. It wasn’t wide, it wasn’t easy, but it was real. For a moment, Steph let herself bask in it.
Because the thing was—when Tim smiled, when he relaxed, when he stopped calculating every second of his life—he looked like the kid he was supposed to still be.
And Steph realized, with a quiet ache she didn’t say out loud, that he didn’t even know how rare that was.
It wasn’t even dark yet.
Steph sprawled across the diner booth, sipping the last of her milkshake, when Tim’s phone buzzed with a ringtone she didn’t recognize. His whole posture snapped sharp—like someone had yanked him upright with puppet strings. He murmured, “Two seconds,” and slipped outside before either of them could ask.
Steph rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “He lives on ‘urgent calls.’ Like Batman can’t handle his own crises for once.”
Cass was too busy pawing through their shopping bags to answer. She had everything lined up on the table: soft leather, silk, shimmering fabrics that Steph couldn’t pronounce the names of. And of course—no receipts.
Steph plucked up a tiny branded tag and snorted. “God, of course Tim took us to the kind of stores where receipts don’t even matter. Like—why print proof when your customers don’t blink at four digits for a jacket?”
Cass gave a slow nod. “Normal here.”
“Yeah, well, must be nice.” Steph leaned back, chewing a fry, until something prickled at her. She glanced over the little mountain of luxury and frowned. “Wait. Where’s Tim’s stuff?”
Cass stilled. Then, after a long pause, she held up a single folded shirt—plain, pale blue, Steph’s size tag still dangling from the collar.
Steph winced. “Oh. Yeah. That was me. I thought it’d look good on him.”
Cass set it down. Her silence was pointed.
Steph looked harder, her chest tightening. Every bag, every box—they were all for her or Cass. Nothing for Tim. Not a jacket, not a pair of shoes, not even socks.
And then Steph realized something worse: she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Tim in anything other than three options—boardroom armor, Red Robin armor, or the saggy, slept-in hoodies of a college dropout.
“Oh my god,” she muttered. “Cass. He doesn’t own clothes.”
Cass tilted her head. “He owns. Just… not his.”
The ache in Steph’s chest sharpened. “Jesus Christ. He doesn’t even think about himself.”
When Tim came back in, still on edge from his call, Cass and Steph exchanged one look. The kind that meant they didn’t need words.
Steph hopped up, grabbed Tim by the wrist, and announced, “Round two. Let’s go.”
The boutiques again. Tim groaned the whole walk over.
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do,” Steph snapped, cutting him off like it was obvious. “You buy suits for board meetings, armor for rooftops, and apparently nothing in between. You’re a fashion cryptid, Tim. It’s tragic.”
Cass shoved him into a fitting room before he could argue.
Steph started the barrage—shirts, jeans, sweaters, jackets, all expensive enough that she wanted to cry on behalf of his bank account. But Tim had no choice but to catch the pile she kept chucking at him.
He emerged in a dark cashmere sweater that fit him too well.
Steph whistled. “Oh damn. Okay, I was right.”
Tim tugged at the sleeves like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. “It’s fine.”
Cass circled him once, clinical, then gave a short nod. “Keep.”
He opened his mouth to protest. Cass folded her arms. Steph smirked. Tim shut his mouth.
The next hour dissolved into chaos.
Steph and Cass raided racks like hyenas, throwing things at Tim until his fitting room looked like a textile explosion. Tim kept trying to sneak out with excuses—phone buzzing, calendar reminders—but every time Cass caught his arm and shoved him back in.
Steph howled with laughter when he came out in a leather jacket. “You look like Jason’s evil twin.”
“Do not tell him that,” Tim muttered.
“Please,” Steph said. “That’s going on the family group chat the second I get signal.”
Cass smirked. “Good jacket. Bad twins.”
Tim groaned.
Between outfit changes, they sprawled on a couch near the fitting rooms, gossip spilling easy.
“Jason totally has a secret Austen book club,” Steph said, biting into a macaron she definitely hadn’t paid for. “I caught him muttering about Elizabeth Bennet like she wronged him personally.”
Cass raised an eyebrow. “He did.”
Steph snorted. “I mean, fair.”
They moved on to Damian (“tiny tyrant”), Dick (“yes, we know he’s hot, but he’s exhausting”), Duke (“literally the only sane one”), and then—because Steph couldn’t resist—Kon.
“So, Tim,” she called, loud enough for her voice to carry over the door. “When’s the wedding? Should I start shopping for bridesmaid dresses now?”
The door creaked open just enough for Tim’s glare to appear. “Stephanie.”
“Oh my god, you’re blushing,” she cackled. “Cass, he’s blushing.”
Cass nodded solemnly. “Red.”
Tim groaned, slammed the door shut, and refused to come out for five whole minutes.
By the time they staggered out with twice as many bags—this time, full of Tim’s clothes—Steph felt half drunk on sugar, gossip, and victory.
But beneath it, that ache still throbbed.
Because she’d watched him in the mirror when he thought they weren’t looking. The way he adjusted his cuffs like he was calculating angles, not admiring himself. The way he shrugged at every compliment, like he didn’t know what it meant to want something just for him.
Tim Drake-Wayne could buy a city block. But he had no idea how to buy himself a sweater without being forced.
Steph looped her arm through his as they walked, grinning like it was still all a joke. “See? This wasn’t so bad. Admit it—you look good.”
Tim muttered something inaudible, but he didn’t pull away.
And Cass, silent beside them, let her hand brush his shoulder for just a second. A wordless promise.
If Tim wouldn’t care for himself, then they’d care for him enough for all three.