Along Those Lines

"Brandon Malone?" the woman at the kiosk smiles.

Bruce smiles back from the driver's side, fake ID in hand as he leans out the window. They're in a boxy beat-up minivan, one the man bought second-hand just last night, and it matches the environment of the motel perfectly, all the way down to the rusted hubcaps. There's no A/C either. Tim's fanning his face with a Yankee's cap and soothing his pain with whatever rock group's on the radio.

"And this must be Alvin," the woman swoons, clearly fawning over Bruce's "Single Dad" performance. They dropped both names on the phone when they booked, knowing full well a place like this would take note and register them as less sketchy for it.

Tim shoots her a boyish grin.

Boy, does he wish there were A/C in this piece of junk….

"Here's your room key. And just hang this on the door if you don't want our cleaning service that day."

"Thank you, Stacey," Bruce gushes in a sterling imitation of a Boston accent. He passes the items to Tim, who winces at the mystery stain on the bottom of the door tag.

Fun.

Soon enough, they're checked in, and Bruce is pulling up outside the pool area next to someone with a boat who clearly never learned how to park. Actually, scratch that. No one here seems to put stock in good parking—except one other person.

"That our guy's?" Tim asks, nodding to the silver Ford a few cars down. It's scrupulously within the lines, almost begging not to get attention. Bruce hums.

"You ready?"

Tim squares his hat back on his head. "As I'll ever be."


This whole operation started two weeks ago.

Someone's been trafficking bad coke through Massachusetts. The only reason it got on their radar is because Gothamites buy that stuff up like the world's on fire (which—for Gotham—is a pretty fair assessment). They've had forty complications in the Bowery in just the past two weeks, most of them lethal, and it's been a growing concern at the GCPD. Bruce and Tim by extension.

They've traced one of the sellers here to Room 210, where the washed-up cousin of the hotel owner lives. Only in reality, said cousin has been living in Plymouth for the past month, receiving regular bank deposits from a Cayman Islands account with a fake name and a stolen social security number.

In other words, sketchy.

That's led Bruce and Tim here on the outskirts of Boston's city limits, checking into Room 209 whilst cosplaying father and son.

Surprisingly, the room's not as bad as Tim was anticipating. He was expecting bullet holes in the walls and brains in the carpet or something. But there're no chips in the beige paint, tears in the wallpaper border, or drugs hidden in the lamp shades. There's only one thing wrong with it, actually, and it's the fact the tap comes out brown.

"Home sweet home," Tim jokes as he turns the sink off.

Bruce stands up from where he's been checking behind the box TV. "No wiretaps or cameras. We should be good to set up shop." The man's already picked his way over their bags (Seriously, there's never enough floor space in these things) and has removed their sound equipment.

"Need help?"

"Should be good for now. You can get some rest."

Tim doesn't need to be told twice. It's weird how just the act of sitting in a car has made him exhausted. He flops back on one of the two queen beds, bouncing against the springs (Ow) and starts flipping channels to Cartoon Network for nostalgia's sake. He passes the news on the way there. Commissioner Gordon is on, talking about what the GCPD is doing to counter the bad drugs. It seems most of the coast is concerned about it.

"Hate to be Dick right now," Tim whistles, popping open a roll of chewing gum. "Or Gordon for that matter. Hopefully we can cut this thing off before it gets worse."

Bruce doesn't stop tinkering with the sound equipment at the desk. "We will. Nightwing can cover for now." He glances over when he hears the chewing gum pop.

"Hubba Bubba. Want some?" Tim shakes the canister at him, and Bruce looks like he's stuck on the name, like "Hubba Bubba" is an old-time swear only Alfred would resuscitate.

"I'll pass," the man decides.

Tim blows another bubble ("Your loss.") and passes time watching Johnny Bravo.


"How about uncle and nephew?" Tim proposed ten days earlier, sitting on the computer banks in that way Alfred hates. "Or second cousins?"

Bruce continued typing without so much as a stutter. "Second cousins would attract too much attention. Uncle and nephew would be more memorable as well. The more nuclear the family, the less scrutiny we'll be under."

Tim opened his mouth, the suggestion of "long-lost brothers" half out of his mouth before Bruce held up a hand.

"Nuclear family will allow us enough leeway to gain special favors if we need but also be equally forgettable. It's the optimal cover."

Tim played with the edges of his cape, noting the signature Pennyworth stitching. "Okay, but…" He didn't know how to reject the idea without saying why.

"Is something wrong?" Bruce asked.

Swallowing, Tim pretended very hard that his cape was just that interesting. "Nope."


Tim comes up for air, rubbing the chlorine out of his eyes with one hand while blindly throwing the diving rings back onto the ground. Bruce is there in his Magnum P.I. style 'stache, reclined in a pool chair and reading Better Homes and Gardens.

"Maybe I'm stupid," Tim vents, still gasping a bit for air as Bruce tosses the rings back into the water. "Usually, I know why Ari's mad at me. I fall asleep during date nights. I'm late. I stand her up. But this time? No clue."

Bruce frisbees out the last ring and Tim attempts to jump for it, only succeeding in getting a mouthful of chlorine on the way down. "Just give her some time," Bruce hums cryptically, watching Tim cough the water back up.

"That's the thing!" Tim splutters. "I think I give her too much time! But like, I don't wanna be clingy either?" They both shrug, a mutual surrender to the female sex, before Tim goes back to his hunt at the bottom of the pool.

It's nine p.m. now, pretty quiet aside from the occasional splash on Tim's end. The lights that rim the pool make the air twist out distorted reflections like a fog, and there's a suspicious calm about the place. Both of them can still make out the silver Ford through the chain-link fence. They're stuck waiting for the owner to hop in and drive off so their tracker can do its stuff, and it's really a matter of time at this point.

After another few rounds of Tim fishing out the rings like a golden retriever, Bruce puts them away. "Come on, chum. Before your hair turns blonde."

"Considering how many chemicals are in here, I'd say I'd turn into Solomon Grundy." Tim heaves himself up, instantly chilled despite the fact it's the middle of July. Bruce tosses him a scratchy hotel towel, and Tim shakes his hair out on purpose, laughing a bit at the fact Bruce gets soaked.

"Think that's him?" Tim guesses a minute later, still wringing out his hair. A figure is making its way down the twirling steps, spinning a keyring around his forefinger. He looks shockingly average with a chinstrap beard and baggy cargo pants.

"Could be." Bruce hands Tim a sweatshirt, jerking his chin as if to tell him to cover any scars. Tim's only been on the job for a few months now, but he's already collected a few shallow ones. Little cuts and tears. One nasty bruise from where he clipped himself with his own bo staff. (Definitely lied to Bruce about that one.)

By the time Tim's worked his arms through the sleeves, the sound of the Ford starting rattles the air.

Bruce and Tim both watch with ease as it pulls out and turns left toward the interstate.

"Wonder where he's going?" Tim muses, as if they both have no way of finding out.

Eyebrow raised, Bruce flips open his phone.


Tim had thought, initially, that lying to Dad about his whereabouts would be the hardest part of this operation. It had sucked to realize how wrong he was.

"But Dad…." Tim said weakly, sitting on the bed in Dad's room while watching the man wrestle khakis into a suitcase. "You and Dana are leaving now?"

"I know it's not the best time, sport, but last week, with the flight cancellations and all, tomorrow was the only time the hotel could reschedule our reservation. I promise we'll celebrate next week." Dad struggled with the luggage zipper for another minute before giving up. "Give me a hand?" he said with that pitying smile Tim's a sucker for.

Sighing, Tim plopped down on top of the suitcase. "But you can't just reschedule a birthday, Dad. That's kinda the point: to have it on the same day." Tim moved his legs to let Dad get the zipper around. "I mean, didn't we have this same conversation last year?"

Dad grunted when the zipper finally jerked into place. "I know," he exhaled, slicking his hair back into place before facing his son. "But Dana is special, Tim. I really think I'm gonna marry her."

Tim shot him a put-out expression.

" And," Dad amended, "I think she'd be a great mom for you. You're getting older, and you need a good female role model in your life."

Tim toyed with the zipper for a minute, flipping the latch back and forth. He'd have argued that he needed a dad more than a mom at that point, but... "I guess…."

Gently, Dad took his face in his hands, tilting it so that Tim looked him in the eye. "Next week, I promise," Dad repeated.

He looked sad enough about it that Tim eased into a reluctant smile. "You better mean that," he relented, and immediately, Dad grinned, mussing up his hair.

"That's my boy."


That's how Tim winds up in the Bay State an hour into his fourteenth birthday.

He's keeping watch from the walkway in front of Room 210. Bruce is inside, placing the rest of the wiretaps and cameras, and that leaves Tim with nothing to do but lean his arms against the railing overlooking the parking lot and take in the night air. They're far out enough from the Atlantic that he can't smell the ocean at all, just the car fumes that roll off I-95.

It's weird being somewhere outside Gotham. Beyond the sparse fishing trip, Mom and Dad were never really the "family vacation" type. They traveled enough with work that the appeal of leaving home to rest just never really hit.

A car turns off the interstate, two circular headlights. It drives on past the motel, leaving Tim to blink at the assortment of cars below in the lot. Navy, white, red, the gaudy wood panels of the minivan he and Bruce arrived in. On the inside is that residual fast-food scent—salty fries and burger grease. Bruce can't cook to save his life. Tim isn't much better.

This morning on the drive here, Bruce stuck a twenty in his hand, and they both split to wander through the aisles of the nearest Speedway. Their assignment will probably only last another day or two, so they weren't looking for much, just snacks and cereal and maybe a sandwich or two. Tim swung his basket lazily, humming to the oldies on over the speaker. Dad always listened to that type of stuff.

Finally, Tim was unloading his items onto the check-out counter, rubbernecking for Bruce.

"You here alone?" the cashier asked with concern. He had a bucket hat with fish hooks poked through and a graying beard so long it frayed at the ends.

Tim glanced back. "Oh. No. My dad's around...somewhere."

"Ah, family trips," the cashier nodded sagely, fish hooks jangling. "Holidays with my old man were the best memories I have. You should check out Castle Island if you're heading into the city. Great for catching striped bass."

Tim forced a smile ("Thanks."), and really, that's been the mood for this trip: a fumbling awkwardness like having a pebble in both shoes.

In the sky above the motel, an airplane blips white, an artificial star. It's not Dad's plane. He and Dana won't be back for days.

Sighing, Tim rests further against the railing and runs both hands up his face and into his hair. The strands are crunchy from all the chlorine, and his shoulders are sunburned under his T-shirt, the fabric agitating. He wants to go to bed ASAP. Good thing Bruce is taking first watch.

The handle to Room 210 turns, a quiet click and curl of the spring. Bruce steps out, shadow-like, and removes his gloves.

"Good?" Tim asks.

Bruce nods.

Yawning, Tim steps back from the railing and pops the key card into 209's lock. He immediately kicks his flip-flops off. There are a few things Tim probably should do while Bruce fiddles with the frequency on his equipment and the tracker: slap some aloe vera on his sunburns, dump the motel's travel-size conditioner on his hair, or at least turn off the bedside lamp.

Instead, Tim crawls into the queen bed's white duvet and stuffs his face into the pillow.

He hasn't brushed his teeth. God, they're going to feel disgusting tomorrow.

In the silence, Bruce shuffles, shoes on carpet. There must be something he's looking for, as a grocery bag rustles, a plastic lid popping open. Something strikes, then fizzles. Tim screws his face, struggling to place the sound.

Eventually, footsteps return and stop nearby. "Tim?"

Tim peeks up from the pillow. "Yeah?"

Bruce is squatted down between the two beds, a paper plate held in both hands. On top of it stands a chocolate muffin with one candle speared through the top. A flame wavers.

Tim blinks at it, then at Bruce. What meets him is a man who wouldn't sing "Happy Birthday" if you held a gun to his head.

Tim smiles wryly. "Alfred?" he guesses.

"Alfred," Bruce agrees.

Chuckling, Tim supposes he can accept that, kicking the blankets off and sitting criss-cross. Bruce hands him the plate.

"Should probably blow it out before the candle melts," Bruce says, ever practical. The flame doesn't give off much light since both lamps are on, but Bruce still tracks it like it could spring off the wick. Tim thinks he'll always be that way, one second away from extinguishing anything that could burn him or Dick.

Tim turns to watch the flame too. Orange-red.

Outside, high up in the atmosphere, a commercial airliner blinks and leaves white vapor trails in the sky. The engine roars where no one hears. A glass clinks. On the other side of the world, Dad finishes lunch, sips his wine, and grins. He's going to marry this woman one day, and the three of them will make a full family again.

Unbeknownst to him, on this side of the world, his child passes himself off as someone else's son. It comes easier than his son would like, easier than it should.

A drop of wax slides down the candle.

Tim closes his eyes and makes a wish.