Chapter Text
Tim’s eyes burn, but he blinks away the blurriness, grabbing his coffee mug and tipping the dregs back onto his tongue. He winces at the gritty bitterness, but remains focused on the spreadsheet in front of him.
He fumbles for the phone next to him, clicking the intercom for Tam’s desk.
“Can I get the reports for last quarter, R&D’s last on-record audit, and a—fuck!” Shifting in his seat, Tim’s back twinges sharply. “A liter of Zesti.”
There’s silence, which is unusual, and Tim drags his gaze away from his computer screen to the door, noticing for the first time in a few hours just how dark his office has gotten.
The window, which takes up most of the wall to his left, is filled not with the quiet early-evening darkness he expects, but rather an oppressive blackness that stretches outwards from the glass towards Tim’s black leather office chair. He glances at the clock. It’s almost 4:00 a.m.
Tim rubs his eyes tiredly, leaning back in his chair and studying his screen again. Finance really fucked up some of the grant funding for one of Wayne Enterprise’s inner city housing repair initiatives, which, if Tim didn’t fix, would halt construction indefinitely. The longer the issue went unresolved, the harder it would be to fix. Tim had been working on the issue since 10:00 p.m, and it seemed to be the gift that just kept giving. Every time he patched one hole of missing information or incorrectly filed receipts, a deeper one popped up. He’d been patching gopher holes for the better part of six hours, with no end in sight.
Scanning the door to his office, Tim noted there was no light shining under it. That made sense; Tam would have left around 10:00, when Tim should have. He vaguely remembers her popping her head in, saying something brief about not staying too late, before giving him her signature disappointed-but-not-surprised grimace and leaving. That was around when he opened the email from Finance. The evening’s been a blur since then.
Tim tips his coffee mug back, before remembering the dregs that are already long gone. He looks disdainfully at the coffee machine across his office, sitting innocuously on a bookshelf and blinking happily at him. With one last glance at the burning trash fire on his computer, he moves to stand.
The twinge in his back comes back, twice as bad as last time. It had steadily been getting worse over the past couple of weeks, moving from slightly annoying, to moderately distracting, to completely unignorable. At this point, when Tim’s back twinges it leaves him breathless and almost doubled over in pain. Or he would be, if he could bend all the way over.
Luckily, with Bruce gone on League business, Tim’s been so busy acting as CEO of WE that he hasn’t had time to patrol as much. Maybe the lack of physical overexertion is good for his muscles, but the alternative being not only sitting in a chair for fifteen hours a day, but also missing Alfred’s near daily physicals seems to be hurting him more than his nightly parkour. He should swing by the manor and see what Alfred thinks. But he has to finish this fucking shitfest first.
There always seems to be another fire to put out, and while Bruce takes a bit of a backseat when it comes to WE, he does quite a bit of work on the down-low. Obviously he has to maintain his ditzy playboy persona, but he’s never been a slouch about managing reports, organizing initiatives within WE, and stamping Tim’s name on it instead of his own. With Bruce gone, Tim feels his absence heartily.
Staggering a bit over to the coffee machine and sticking his mug under it, he presses the button and attempts to stretch his back out.
He feels like a bit of a fool, widening his stance and throwing one hand over his head to stretch out his sides, and it doesn’t even seem to be stretching the right part of his back. The coffee machine sputters, and Tim carefully lowers himself to his knees, minding the fabric of his pants and attempting not to crease it too much. He tucks himself down into a deep child’s pose, letting out a quiet groan as it nudges something in his back into place. He feels a click, and suddenly the pain is worse. Tim arches into the stretch, gritting his teeth through the discomfort. When he hears the coffee maker sputter to a stop, he eases out of the pose and moves back to his feet. It’s marginally better. But not by much. Tim takes a deep drink of the scalding cup of coffee, wincing and moving back to his desk. He drops into his chair and lets out a long-suffering sigh.
The next morning, or rather, three hours later, Tim changes into the spare suit he keeps in the closet near his desk, freshens up in the private bathroom off of his office, and opens the door to greet an unimpressed Tam. Tim’s well versed in pulling all-nighters in the office and not letting it be too obvious to those who are supposed to look to him as a superior, but Tam’s never been fooled. Tim gives her a sheepish smile.
“Could I get the reports for last quarter on the Somerset new-build initiative and R&D’s last on-record audit, as soon as you can?”
Tam’s hand flies over a notepad, and she gives him a curt nod, tucking her long black hair behind her ear.
“Anything else, Mr. Drake?” Tam gives him a little pitying smile.
“That’s all, Miss Fox,” Tim replies with as reassuring of an expression as he can manage. It’s difficult on three days of no sleep. He turns back to his office, but remembers just at the last second— “Oh, and let MacCaffrey know the MC housing repair fund is back in order. They can keep going with construction by the end of the week as long as Finance does their jobs.”
Tim skitters back into his office before he can see the expression on Tam’s face, adjusting his lapels and unbuttoning his suit before dropping back into his seat. He hisses a little when the soreness reappears in his back, but loses himself in his emails until Tam knocks gently on his door, not even ten minutes later.
She drops a manilla folder onto Tim’s desk, before crossing her arms and sitting into her hip, peering at him sharply. Tim tries not to shrink.
“Tim,” she starts. Tim turns back to his computer and clicks mindlessly, but Tam doesn’t relent. “Timothy.”
Tim frowns. He swivels his chair towards her, mimicking her crossed arms and furrowed brow, but when he sits back in his chair his back twinges again and he can’t help the wince. Tam is immediately concerned, and Tim tries to erase the expression but is too late.
“Is your back still bothering you?” she inquires. Tim had offhandedly mentioned it a few weeks ago, but her mind was like a steel trap. Tim glowers.
“No. I’m fine.” Tam looks unconvinced. “These are the reports?”
Tam pulls the manilla file back towards herself, giving Tim another one of those looks. Suddenly, her face lights up. She drops the file and darts out of Tim’s office, leaving him a little startled and mostly confused. He’s operating on far too little sleep to be able to properly process quick movements. Tim reaches for the file, opening it and beginning to read the first page, when it’s wrenched out of his grip, and Tam is back in front of his chair, looking expectantly at him. Tim looks down to see what has replaced the important business file he was looking at, and is surprised to see a coupon for a massage parlor. A coupon for a massage parlor? Why did Tam give him a coupon for a massage parlor? Does she think he can’t afford to get a massage?
“I know you can afford it, but maybe if you don’t have to pay you’re more likely to actually go,” Tam says, reading Tim’s mind. He flushes, and extends the coupon back towards Tam.
“You should keep it. You deserve a massage, go use it on your day off tomorrow,” he says, but Tam takes a firm step back.
“You should use it today on your day off.” She retorts. Tim’s already shaking his head.
“I’m not gonna take today off, after all. I just got an email from Hernandez and there’s an issue with the offboarding process that is gonna need a panel to—”
“The company will be fine for one day without you, Tim. When’s the last time you slept?” Tam interrupts.
“Last night,” Tim tries weakly.
“Sure, Mr. Drake. You’re taking tomorrow off. I’ll set up a meeting with Hernandez bright and early tomorrow for you. But you’re taking today. Your schedule is clear of meetings, and nobody is expecting you to be in. Get out of here.”
If anyone else tried to talk to Tim like that, he’d probably relocate their desk to the basement and write them a preemptive letter of recommendation containing words like, “strong-willed” and “abrasive.” With Tam, though, all he feels is mostly embarrassment, and a little bit of relief. He settles back down into his seat, and winces once again at the twinge in his back.
Giving one last sorry glance at his computer, he scoops the business card up and studies it more carefully.
“Sunset Massage Therapy,” he reads out. “They probably don’t even have any openings today. These places don’t do walk-ins.”
“I made an appointment for you at 9.”
Of course she did.
“Plenty of time for you to go home, get some comfortable clothes, and make it there fifteen minutes early.”
Tim frowns. “You planned this, didn’t you?”
Tam’s sly smile is utterly unrepentant.
Two hours later, Tim is in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, parallel parking on the street next to a wide dark blue window with “Sunset Massage Therapy” written in cursive across it. He winces as he exits the car, and gingerly eases the door to the massage parlor open. The lobby is clean and calm, with soothing soft lighting behind the front desk and rounded edges everywhere. There’s gentle piano music playing, almost too softly to be picked out but present enough to ease the tension migraine that Tim’s been suffering through for so long he almost forgot he had it.
There’s a kind looking woman behind the desk with gray hair and wrinkles around her bespectacled eyes that crinkle a little when Tim steps up. He clears his throat, running a hand through his hair.
“I’ve got an appointment for 9?”
He watches the woman, Claudia as her nametag states, as she scans the computer in front of her, nods her head once, and clicks something on screen.
“What’s your name, hon?” She peers over her glasses at him. He flushes a little. He must look insane. Or at least a little homeless.
“It should be under Drake? Timothy Drake?”
“I’ve got you for a deep tissue massage with Peter, does that sound right?”
Tim shrugs a little, giving her a half smile. “That sounds great, thanks.”
“Did you want to add any services today? We’ve got some specials on facials this month, if you’re interested.”
Tim shakes his head blithely, but Claudia doesn’t seem offended. She pulls a towel out from under the desk, and begins to lead Tim through a door and down a hallway, and finally into a small, dimly-lit room with a humidifier, a cart with towels, and a long padded table.
“You’ll remove your clothing, lay down on your stomach with the towel over you, and Peter’ll be in shortly.”
Tim thanks her and obeys, easing his sweatpants down and his shirt off. The table has a hole at one end, presumably for his face, so he tucks himself into it, and relaxes onto the table. The piano music is a bit louder in this room, and the humidifier is keeping the room warm and moist. Tim feels his eyes start to close, nearly drifting off when the gentle click of the door startles him.
A deep, warm voice rumbles above him. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
The voice is comforting and vaguely familiar. Tim feels himself settle back onto the table.
“I’ve got you down for a deep tissue massage, does that sound right?”
Tim nods, feeling a little silly when his cheeks rub against padded leather. He hears a little hum of assent, and then the sound of, presumably Peter, rubbing his hands together.
“Alright. You just let me know if you’re uncomfortable at any point. It can get a little intense, but I can always back off if you need a second to breathe. Do you want me to target anywhere in particular?”
Tim flops a hand up and onto his back, prodding his lower-left side near his spine.
“I’ve been getting twinges here every once in a while.” A heavy, warm hand smooths over Tim’s back, and he fights a shiver. He’s never been the best with physical contact, and having his vision completely obstructed only heightens his senses. Thick fingers prod his spine and he hears a sympathetic hum.
Two hands glide over Tim’s back, skimming around his shoulders and dipping down to his waist.
“You’ve got knots all over. You work an office job?”
Tim nods.
“I can tell. You should think about getting one of those orthopaedic cushions for your chair. They don’t fix the problem, but they can help. Daily stretching can help, too.”
Tim knows this. He stretches before every patrol. He’s just been slacking a little, since he hasn’t been patrolling recently. Unfortunately, physical discomfort from office equipment is a slow and silent death, and he’s been a bit lax on his physical maintenance recently. Sue him. He’s busy.
Tim lets out a low groan when Peter’s hands, now slick with oil, begin to dig into his shoulders, working knots and pressing soreness into his muscles. He hears a little huff of amusement and fights back a flush.
Peter works in silence for a while, working down Tim’s back, along his arms and down to his hands, rubbing into the arches of his feet and up his calves, and then briefly along his thighs and the sides of his glutes. By twenty minutes in, Tim is practically drooling and shaking himself awake every ten seconds or so. Peter’s hands keep returning to that one sore spot in the center of Tim’s back, nudging muscles back into place and prodding them gently into compliance.
Too soon, Tim’s being gently shook awake by Peter’s large, warm hands. There’s laughter in his voice as he shakes Tim’s shoulder.
“Sir? We’re all done here for today. How are you feeling?”
Tim lets out a wordless mess of sounds, coming out as something like, “Hnrhgnhngn,” which Peter seems to take, rightly, as a compliment.
There’s pride in Peter’s voice when he says, “You’ve got a lot of tension in your muscles. Do you wanna sit up for me?”
Tim gives a little pitiful whine, but relents when Peter nudges at his shoulder to roll him over. Peter carefully holds the towel protecting Tim’s modesty as he rolls, and then guides him to gently sit up. Tim squeezes his eyes shut, rubs at them once, and then blinks them blearily open. To Jason Todd’s shocked face.
“Tim?” He says.
“What the fuck.” Tim replies.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jason demands.
“Getting a massage,” Tim replies. He’s not on his A-game, sue him. He just had the most mind-blowing massage he’s ever gotten and his brain’s a little scrambled. Tim furrows his brow. “What the hell are you doing here? Since when do you work at a massage parlor?”
“I’m undercover, dumbass,” comes Jason’s retort. “Alfred knows anatomy. And after enough PT, so do I. There are clients at this salon we’re investigating for kiddie porn.”
Tim blinks. Processing kiddie porn is not something that is easy right now.
“Jesus,” he says, lamely. “Well, thanks for the massage. You’re pretty good at that.”
Jason frowns, taking two steps back and running a hand through his hair.
“You can’t come back here,” Jason says. Tim frowns. “I’m hoping to wrap this case up next week, and if they catch wind of Waynes poking around they might bolt.”
That makes sense.
“You really should get an orthopaedic cushion, Timbit. Your back is a wreck.”
Tim glares at Jason, contemplating throwing something. But all he has to throw is the towel currently covering his dick from sight, and he kind of needs that.
Tim settles on glowering at Jason until he leaves the room, giving another one of those amused huffs and a little shrug of his shoulders.
“And Tim?” Jason doesn’t turn, but he throws a wave over his shoulder. “Try to get some sleep, kid.”
Tim pulls his clothes on and tries to ignore the heat in his cheeks, how much better his muscles feel, and the tightness in his sweatpants.