#it's like what if his WFA outfit but body armor instead do you guys see my vision

[zorilleerrant]

“We’re doing what?” Bernard says, adjusting the sticky, itchy mask that Tim swears he’ll get used to if he gives it a few more weeks, and picks at the sleeve of his… he hesitates to say costume, because it’s basically just a tac vest in pink, and he has maybe a few too many accessories full of pockets, but there’s apparently a lot of things you need to carry just for day to day vigilantism in Gotham. “I mean, yeah, sure, Be Gay Do Crime, but what exactly?”

“I told you. We’re holding up a truck,” Tim says, again, like just repeating himself makes it any clearer for Bernard. He wants to ask if hold up means a different thing than he thinks it does, except what else could it possibly mean? What, are they going to lift it up to do maintenance on it or something? Tim seems like the type to say they’re jacking a truck and mean that. Also Bernard wishes they’d given him a code name instead of just laughing.

“Like a heist. We’re doing a heist? Is that not a supervillain thing to do?” They were actually really nice about getting Bernard kitted out and practicing with his staff (okay, they made a lot of innuendos about the staff, but if that’s what Tim uses, it’s easier to practice together, right? They made a lot of innuendoes about that, too) and apparently it’s a huge benefit that he already knows martial arts. But he kept asking whether they really needed all that stuff – four hundred separate antidotes – and they would just give Tim looks and ask if he really wanted to take Bern, which, rude.

“It’s not a heist heist,” Tim says, but he’s still dressed as Robin, and armed, even if he’s spinning his staff around his arms and across his back instead of standing menacingly, which is better on the supervillain front, really. “We’re, you know. Redistributing medications,” Tim says, with some kind of quality in his voice like he’s mimicking someone, but Bernard hasn’t spent enough time with his family in costume to figure out who, yet. Their superhero voices are super different from their regular voices. It’s disconcerting.

“We’re stealing medicine?” Bernard asks, skeptically, and also in a voice that’s supposed to sound deep and booming, but kind of just sounds like he’s imitating a frog. He’s workshopping it. “I’m not sure how I feel about stealing medicine,” he adds, even though Tim is rolling his eyes and clearly remembering some sort of slideshow about all this, which Bernard is kind of grateful he didn’t have to watch too.

“Just follow my lead, okay? The driver knows what’s up,” Tim says, and the truck does pull into the stop, just like he said it would, the driver getting out and stretching for a few minutes before opening up the back. There are boxes and boxes neatly stacked with little bats stamped on them, like actually stamped, like with a giant red rubber stamp. Tim starts unloading them, and Bernard has to scramble to help.

“What’s in these?” Bernard asks. He thinks it’s quiet, but he’s still trying to get his superhero voice down, and he’s starting to see why everyone else was making fun of him for it. (Or, mostly, except for Steph, refraining from making fun of him.) He winces when the truck driver looks up, and tries to smile to cover for his gaff, but, like, what exactly is he meant to be implying here? Tim looks like he’s holding back a snort, which is his fault anyway, because he should’ve briefed Bernard better. Given him a dossier or something.

“The usual stuff,” the truck driver says, blandly, not handing over an inventory or anything, but ticking things off on her fingers, “antibiotics, insulin, inhalers, all the name brand stuff it can be hard to come by. Got a couple of those heating pad things you guys like this time, too. And your guys’ stuff, you know. The painkillers and bandages and all. I think there’s some branded clothing in there, too, marketing’s doing a whole thing.”

“That sounds, good, thanks!” Tim says, shoving things inside the Batmobile, while Bernard stares like a dumbass, trying to figure out how long this has been going on, and what exactly is happening here.

“So, like. Do you get paid for this?” Bernard says, gesturing vaguely at the supplies that Tim is carefully loading up, cataloguing as he goes. (Clearly, Tim does have an inventory.) Tim gives him a weird look over that, and the truck driver does too, but it’s too late to take it back once he’s said it. Not if he wants to establish street cred. Street cred? Is that anything?

“I mean, I get paid to drive the truck,” the truck driver says, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes a little, and looking Bernard up and down like she’s wondering whether to trust him. And not even like she’s nervous either, despite the fact that he’s clearly armed, and not that nervous plus doesn’t trust Robin implicitly means she’s probably from Gotham, and been around enough to know when stuff doesn’t sit right. Which means Bernard should be careful about antagonizing her, probably. “Not enough, mind you, and they’ve got me on the kind of unrealistic timelines that would make you shit your pants, but they’ve programmed in a long time for the Bats to do their thing.”

Bernard stares at her in incomprehension for what feels like the longest time, except that he probably should’ve seen this coming, from the way Tim was talking and all. “They do this on purpose? Like. Your company sets up boxes for us on purpose?” He glances over at Tim, who shrugs, shuffling things around a box that’s overflowing with bandages, which he puts in the back seat, which makes Bernard kind of anxious they’ll need them later.

“Sure, I don’t know, insurance covers it or something,” the truck driver says, shuffling around some of the boxes left in the truck and shutting the door again. “They got to thinking it’s costing them more to try to fight off Bats than just handing them shit, and, you know, I appreciate the break. Apparently Batman calling up management in the middle of the night to say it takes how long it takes is scary enough they built in buffers on the schedule. I’m going to sit here and eat my entire dinner.”

At this point, Tim gestures to the picnic baskets Bernard had been asking about, to which he’d only given the cryptic answer it’s highway robbery, and which apparently is dinner, presumably made by Alfred, for the truck driver, who makes excited sounds when Bernard sets it out on the picnic table for her, laying out fancy picnic silverware and everything, including a full tea set which is for some reason in the basket. There’s a thermos full of hot water to prepare it.

Which makes sense, because at least one pouch in his utility belt is full of tea bags, just in case Bernard needs them on, like, a case, which doesn’t make any sense to him but he’s seen Robins doing way weirder stuff, so he should probably be used to it by now. He leaves the truck driver to her dinner, and goes to help Tim repack everything, some of it into the boxes it came in, some of it into various bags and envelopes. “This is normal?” he asks, and apparently his voice carries when he tries to make it sound funny like this, because the truck driver hears him.

She yells back, “oh, yeah, everyone does it except Wayne Pharma, who decided to spend the money developing better armor for their trucks and staffing them with guards and things. They won’t give any kind of help to the poor. They claim they’ve got to do it through charitable foundations, but people are robbing trucks left and right in this city, it seems an okay compromise. I think Bruce Wayne might just be an asshole.”

Bernard chokes on his spit a little, trying to respond and stop himself from responding at the same time, but at least he doesn’t make any kind of embarrassing noise, not even when Tim nods in enthusiastic agreement and says something about them thinking someone’s going to steal their proprietary tech secrets or something. “Paranoid,” Bernard adds, when Tim elbows him in the side, “guy’s paranoid, plans within plans, who knows what’s going on in his head.” Tim gives him a vaguely disappointed look for that answer, but Bernard can’t figure out what’s wrong with it, so he just shrugs back.

“Alright, you kids have fun, you stay safe out there,” the truck driver says, tucking into her soup and giving them a little wave. Bernard picks up the boxes and stacks them in the Batmobile’s trunk in the order Tim specifies, double checking to make sure everything’s squared away, and then they both say their goodbyes to the truck driver Bernard is now kind of wondering if Tim knows? Or maybe all the truck drivers just know how to get through the Bat version of a shakedown.

Bernard climbs into the front passenger seat of the Batmobile, wondering whether they’re just, like, going to go back and get the picnic set later? Or if there’s a tracker in it and Batman will swoop down and pick it up off the seat of the truck on its way out of town? “So, uh, I guess that’s where you guys get your painkillers and stuff?” he says, for lack of anything better to add, and then looks in the backseat, where everything set aside for personal use (kind of a lot, and now Bernard’s definitely worried about his ongoing health) stares menacingly at him.

“Better than breaking into a veterinarian’s office or something,” Tim says, completely unbothered, even when he throws an arm back reflexively to stop the biggest box from falling over when they turn a corner. They can’t have been driving more than a couple minutes when he pulls up to someone’s house where an old couple is sitting out front, waiting for them already. “Damian would be so mad if we robbed a vet, anyway. Hey! Guys! Guess what fell off a truck?”

The couple ambles over to pull some things out of the trunk (not most of them, even). They remind Bernard of his grandparents, if his grandparents trafficked stolen goods that Batman had arranged for them to hand out to their communities. Tim seems very pleased to be thanked, which Bernard gathers doesn’t happen all the time, and helps them move everything inside. Also the second picnic basket is full of cookies.