Chapter Text
Tim is good at galas.
No, scratch that—Tim is great at galas. He’s been attending them ever since the age of three, when his parents first stuffed him into his little Gymboree tuxedo and gave him a stern lecture about ‘sitting quietly’ and ‘speaking when spoken to.’ He knows all the rules: what to wear, how to stand, when to smile, what to say, what not to say. He knows how to come across as polite and intelligent and charming, and on absolutely any other day, he would be rocking this.
“Timothy.”
He startles at the sound of his mother’s voice. She’s standing behind him, her dangly earrings brushing against his suit collar as she leans in close to hiss reprovingly in his ear. “Stop. Yawning.”
“Sorry,” Tim whispers, even as his body chooses that moment to betray him. He attempts to let the yawn out subtly by keeping his mouth closed and flaring his nostrils, but Janet still glares at him. “Sorry,” he says again, sheepish. “I’ll stop. I swear.”
“You’d better. You’re–”
Both she and Tim turn their heads and paste back on their best Gala Smiles™ to warmly greet the mayor’s wife as she approaches. There’s a brief conversation in which Tim gets his cheeks pinched and is told how big he’s getting (“Twelve years old already, Timothy? My goodness, how time flies!”). Then she and Janet chat about the upcoming town council meeting for a few minutes while Tim just stands there, a practiced smile serenely plastered on his face while he internally re-examines his life choices.
Okay, so in hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have gone out last night.
Really, if he’s being honest with himself, he shouldn’t be going out any night. Downtown Gotham is a sketchy place for an unaccompanied minor in even the broadest of daylight; it’s downright treacherous after dark. But Tim’s long-since accepted the risks of his nighttime escapades.
It’s worth it for a chance to see the Bats in action.
Sneaking out hadn’t been the problem. He perfected the art of silently unlocking his bedroom window and shimmying down the trellis years ago, and even when his parents are home, it’s not like they ever bother to check in on him during the night. There are a few security cameras scattered across the Drake property grounds, but they’re all easily avoided if you know where to walk, and Tim could do it in his sleep.
The bus driver didn’t so much as blink at Tim when he’d taken the 148 into the city, and he’d kept his head down as he walked the two blocks to a nearby apartment complex where he knew a specific dumpster was positioned near enough to the fire escape to allow him access to the roof. It had been a 7-E-Delta night—or at least that’s what Tim refers to it as. The Bats have twelve distinct patrolling routes, each of them with five alternating starting times and six different points of entry which they rotate through in a complicated pattern every few weeks to keep the Rogues on their toes. Tim wrote an algorithm to crack their system when he was ten, but he’s always been a bit obsessive like that whenever there’s a puzzle to solve.
(It’s the same reason his parents refuse to watch Criminal Minds episodes with him anymore.)
The evening hadn’t been particularly eventful. Tim kept to the shadows like always, moving silently from one fire escape to another and utilizing his camera’s high-resolution lenses to stay safely removed from the action. He’d snapped pictures of Batman and Robin perching on rooftops, swinging from grapple lines, and supporting an up-and-coming local business by purchasing several rather overpriced falafel wraps.
All of that had been totally fine.
The trouble had come at around one a.m, just as Tim was getting ready to pack up his camera and call it a night so that he could make the last bus back to Bristol. That’s when a few sketchy characters stumbling out of a nearby bar just so happened to commandeer the exact alleyway that Tim was perched above to have an all-out brawl, which quickly escalated from fists, to smashed liquor bottles, to switchblades.
Then, when some certain caped vigilantes swooped in to break it up, one of the drunks pulled a gun and things got really interesting.
The good news is that Tim both managed to avoid getting shot and to take some epically close-range photos of Batman and Robin kicking ass.
...Which was almost awesome enough to make up for the twelve mile hike back to Bristol after he missed his bus.
It was 5:45 in the morning by the time he finally hauled himself back up the trellis and in through the window—just in time to crash into bed before his alarm went off for school at 6:30.
(Oh well. You win some, you lose some.)
The moment the mayor’s wife bids her farewell and moves on to greet the next little cluster of attendees, Janet turns back to Tim.
“You are making a scene,” she continues in a low voice, as if they hadn’t been interrupted at all. “Elaina McBurry said she caught you nodding off during Mr. Wayne’s opening address. She even asked me if you were ill.”
Janet sounds so appalled by the idea that she might bring her son out in public while at anything less than his best that Tim nearly snorts aloud at the irony. Just last month he’d emailed his parents during their dig in Tibet to request they call him out of school for a fever and sore throat, and they’d advised him to ‘try and push through.’
(It was strep. He found out two days later when Mrs. Mac had to come pick him up from the nurse’s office after he’d fainted during a biology lab.)
“I’m just tired,” Tim says truthfully. It’s going on hour five of the annual Martha Wayne Foundation Charity Ball and it’s taking every ounce of self-control for him to keep his eyelids open.
It wouldn’t be so bad if only Tim had been able to snag his usual after-school power nap, but his parents have an early flight to Honduras tomorrow morning, so they needed his help prepping the equipment and hauling out suitcases. Before Tim knew it, it was time to start getting dressed for the gala.
But it’s fine. Really. He can do this. Sure, he also hadn’t really slept much two nights ago (insomnia), and had gotten to bed kind of late three nights ago (history paper deadline), but he’s fine. He’ll be fine.
“How much longer do you think it’ll be?” he asks quietly.
“Well that entirely depends on when your father is able to close his deal with the Drummonds,” his mother replies, glancing over to where Jack is chatting amicably with a small group of businessmen across the ballroom. Her irritation seems to shift along with her gaze, from her son to her husband. “I told him to just make his offer hours ago, but he insists he’s ‘playing the long game’ over there. Last time I checked in, they were scheduling a golf outing...”
So, another hour at least. Great. Not like it’s approaching midnight and Tim’s running on less than an hour of sleep or anything.
“For goodness sake, Timothy!” Janet says when he attempts another one-nostril yawn. His mother’s eyes dart around the room. “People are starting to stare.”
Tim barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. No one—honestly no one —is looking at them right now, but he knows from experience that pointing out that fact will only make his mother more annoyed with him.
(It’s kind of funny, really. Under any other circumstance, Tim would kill for this much attention from his parents.)
“Go to the restroom and splash some water on your face,” she orders, giving him a little nudge toward the door. “Then ask the waitstaff for something with caffeine. I don’t want to see you back in public until you can control yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tim nods immediately, but Janet’s already turned away and plastered back on her Gala Smile™ to greet a woman wearing more pearls than an oyster bed.
The sounds of the party grow muffled in the background as Tim slips out of the ballroom and into the hall. He has no actual intention of splashing water on his face—it’ll ruin the concealer he’s wearing to hide the frankly horrendous dark circles under his eyes—but he’s not about to turn down his mother’s explicit permission to take a break.
There are two guest powder rooms just off the reception hall. Tim tries the doors, but finds both of them locked. Sighing, he leans his back up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and waits.
A few seconds later, his head drops to his chest and he jerks it back up with an involuntary snort.
God. He’s so tired he could cry.
He won’t, that’s stupid. He’s not a toddler. Not that his parents would have ever let him cry at a formal event as a toddler either—he’d have been shipped back to the nanny so fast he’d have whiplash.
Huh. He wonders how Ms. Sophie is doing these days. She was always his favorite of the rotating cast of childcare workers his parents hired over the years, so it had been a real shame when she’d gotten engaged and moved to Montana. If he closes his eyes, he can still smell that lily of the valley perfume she always wore...
Tim feels his head drop and jerks it up again, blinking. Focus, Tim. He taps his cheeks a few times, trying fruitlessly to wake himself up.
Maybe he should just walk home? It’s only about a mile from Wayne Manor to the Drake Estate—child’s play compared to his trek back from the city last night. He can shoot his parents a text once he’s on his way home so they know not to look for him. They’ll no doubt be pissed at him for abandoning the party, but hey, they’re pissed at him anyway and at least this way he’ll get some sleep out of it.
Leaving through the main entrance is out of the question; there are far too many guests milling about there and he’ll certainly be noticed. But Tim’s spent... well, kind of an embarrassing amount of time staring at (and daydreaming about, and discreetly photographing the exterior of) Wayne Manor over the years, so he knows that there’s a sunny library toward the southeast corner of the building with massive windows and sliding glass doors that lead right out to the grounds.
If Tim can just get there, he’s golden.
His mind made up, Tim takes a breath and pushes himself away from the wall, moving quietly but determinedly down the corridor. He passes by an elegant parlor with ten or so guests sitting around chatting, and then an industrial-sized kitchen buzzing with catering staff, but no one pays the twelve-year-old any mind. He slips past them easily, but halts when he turns a corner to find a velvet rope blocking off the next hall.
End of the public wing, his groggy brain supplies. And if Tim were any more awake at the moment, he might have thought twice about ducking under the rope and continuing on into the private wing of Bruce Wayne’s mansion. But as it is, there’s only one thought on Timothy Drake’s mind, and that is that if he succeeds in this mission, it ends with him crashing into his glorious, wonderful, soft, inviting bed and that alone is enough to spur him onward.
He walks by another sitting room—much cozier looking than the public one—then past a few impressive suits of armor, and then suddenly, he sees it: a spacious, bookcase-lined room with floor to ceiling windows and a sliding glass door that will be Tim’s ticket home.
A tired grin spreads across his face as he steps inside.
...Right before he sees the night sky light up with a flash of lightning, followed a split-second later by the crack of thunder.
Shit.
It’s pouring rain outside.
Tim’s parents might be willing to overlook him dipping out of the gala early, but there is no way in hell they’re going to overlook him ruining an eight hundred dollar tuxedo and brand new Oxforda after he jogs a mile across the muddy grounds.
“Noooo...” Tim lets out a groan, balling his hands up and pressing them against his eyes in frustration. That’s it. He’s going to be stuck here until his dad closes that stupid deal. He really could cry.
The combination of Tim’s exhaustion and his current theatrics are starting to make his head rush, so he sinks down, for just a moment, into a nearby armchair. It’s plush and overstuffed and envelops him instantly. Why don’t they have chairs like this at his house? Most of the furniture at the Drakes’ home is stiff and uncomfortable, better suited for show than actual use.
But this chair? This chair is heavenly.
He’ll just stay for a minute or two, rest his eyes and catch his breath before making his way back to the ballroom. Maybe if he asks really nicely, one of the waiters will give him an espresso. Though, ugh, he’s so overtired that just the thought of drinking something that bitter right now makes him want to puke.
It’s fine though. Tim will be fine. Just after he rests for a minute...
“Whoa! Who the fuck are you?”
Tim wakes with a start, his eyes snapping open at the exclamation to reveal sunlight streaming in through the massive windows of the Wayne family library. In front of him stands a teenage boy dressed in an oversized red hoodie and Wonder Woman pajama pants. He looks at least as surprised to see Tim as Tim is to see him.
Holy shit, that’s Jason Todd, Tim’s mind supplies. That’s Robin.
“Uhh...” Tim’s brain is short-circuiting. He twists around in his seat and scrubs quickly at the little puddle of drool he’d left on the armchair. God, this is embarrassing.
“Hey B?” Jason calls over his shoulder, eyes still locked on Tim. “Is there something you wanna tell me?”
“Like what, Jaybird?” And just like that, Bruce Wayne, wearing a plaid robe and honest-to-god fuzzy slippers, appears in the doorway. There’s a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm and a steaming mug in his hand with the words ‘World’s Best Cat-sitter’ scrawled across the front. He blinks at Tim.
Tim blinks back.
“I see.” Bruce clears his throat, then turns his head over his shoulder. “Hey Alfred?” he calls calmly down the hall. “Were you aware we’d acquired another child?”
“No, Master Bruce, but I shall set out another plate post-haste,” a prim British voice replies from what sounds like a room or two away.
“Thank you, Alfred.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Finally, Tim finds his tongue. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayne,” he blurts out, scrambling up from the armchair to his feet. “I was here for the gala and I just– I– I got a bit lost looking for the bathroom and I wandered in here! I only meant to sit down for a minute but I must’ve fallen asleep! I’m so sorry, I’ll leave right now!”
“Hey, hey calm down, dude,” Jason says with a little laugh, holding his hands up in front of his chest in a non-threatening gesture. “You’re fine, no one’s mad at you. You just surprised me, that’s all. I came in here to grab my book, and lo and behold, I find out B went ahead and replaced me with the newer model while I was sleeping.”
“Jason,” Bruce chides, giving him a stern look. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Jason snorts. “What? He’s got black hair and blue eyes and– ow!” he yelps when Bruce reaches over and flicks him right in the center of his forehead. He rubs the spot with a scowl. “Rude,” he mutters, which only makes Bruce smirk.
Turning back to Tim, Bruce switches the mug to his left hand so that he can extend his right. “I don’t believe we had the pleasure of meeting last night. Bruce Wayne,” he offers, as if it were even possible for Tim not to know that.
“Timothy Drake,” Tim replies in a daze, shaking the hand on reflex more than anything. It’s somehow both warmer and rougher than he’d expected. “Uh, but I just go by Tim. I live next door,” he adds hastily.
“Wait, the Drakes?” Jason interrupts, brow furrowed. “Didn’t your parents leave super late last night? With that Drummond guy?”
“And how would you know that, Jay?” Bruce asks, looking at his son in amusement. “You told me you had a stomachache and went up to bed as soon as dinner was over.”
Jason snorts humorously. “I just didn’t want to hear any more of your boring speeches, old man. I keep telling you, you need better material.” He jerks a thumb sideways at Tim. “Even Timmy here was nodding off during your welcome address.”
“No I wasn’t!” Tim feels his cheeks flush. If his mother had been ready to rip him a new one over nosy old Mrs. McBurry catching him, he doesn’t even want to imagine what she’d say now. “I thought your speech was really interesting, Mr. Wayne,” he says quickly. “Especially the parts about, uh, charity, and giving back to the community, and uh...”
Bruce chuckles, making a placating gesture with his free hand. “It’s alright, Tim. I’ll admit, it wasn’t my best.”
“You should let me and Dick write the next one for you,” Jason offers. “I’m sure we can spice things up.”
“Thanks, but I’d kind of like to keep my position on the board of directors,” Bruce says in a deadpan.
Jason clutches his chest, letting out a little gasp of mock offense. “You wound me, B.”
Bruce takes a sip of his coffee, his expression impassive. “You’ll get over it.”
“Um–” Tim side-steps awkwardly around the coffee table. “I think I’d best be getting home now. I’m so sorry again for the trouble.”
Jason’s eyes widen. “Oh shoot, that’s right. Your parents are probably worried sick.” He pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket. “Here, you can call them if you want.”
At the mention of his parents, cold dread pools in Tim’s stomach. Worried sick he highly doubts, but livid? Now, livid is a definite possibility.
“Oh, no thank you, I have my own,” Tim declines, reaching into his jacket’s interior pocket. His phone has been on silent all night, so he mentally braces himself as he pulls it out for the barrage of furious missed texts and calls he’s sure to have from–
Oh.
Apart from a couple of mobile game notifications and the clock displaying ‘10:37 a.m,’ Tim’s lock screen is completely empty.
So. They didn’t even notice they’d left without him.
Which... Which is fine! Tim is fine. Sure, his parents might’ve sorta, kinda, accidentally forgotten about him, but that’s just because they’re not used to dragging a kid around all the time. It’s an easy mistake to make! And it’s not like it’s a long walk back home or anything. Heck, it’s actually better for Tim this way because it means his parents are probably still sleeping off last night’s indulgences, so if he’s lucky, he might even be able to scale back up the trellis and in through his window before they wake up to realize–
Bruce clears his throat. “Uh, forgive me if I’m mistaken, Tim,” he begins carefully, “but I spoke with your father last night at the gala, and I believe he mentioned something about an early morning flight to Honduras...?”
Tim freezes, his thumb still hovering over the phone screen.
He blinks. No. There’s no way they–
It’s one thing to have forgot they brought him to a party, but there’s no way they would have up and left for Honduras without even–
“Uh... Tim?” Jason says slowly. “Are you supposed to be on a plane right now?”
That’s enough to snap Tim out of it. “What? Oh, no, I’m not,” he says quickly, shaking his head to clear it. “It’s just a business trip. The plan was always for me to stay home. It’s just that I thought...”
He trails off, watching Bruce and Jason’s concerned faces.
Focus, Tim.
He shakes his head again, forcing out a small laugh. “I think there was just a minor miscommunication about how I was getting home last night, that’s all,” he finishes, flashing his best Gala Smile™ for good measure.
Jason’s frown only grows deeper, but Bruce returns the smile—warm and relaxed, if a little shallow. It’s the same smile Tim’s seen him give during press interviews.
“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply anything to the contrary,” he says easily. “Can I ask who’s looking after you while they’re away?”
“Our housekeeper, Mrs. McIlvaine,” Tim answers smoothly. This part at least, he’s had plenty of practice explaining over the years. “She’ll be over later this afternoon.”
(What Tim doesn’t mention is that Mrs. Mac is just dropping off groceries and tidying up a bit before heading back home, and that he won’t see her again until Tuesday. But what the Waynes don’t know can’t hurt them.)
Bruce hums thoughtfully. “Well in that case, we’d be happy to have you join us for breakfast while you wait for her,” he invites. “I believe Alfred has been preparing quite the spread.”
“Indeed, sir.” As if on cue, an older gentleman in a suit and waistcoat appears in the doorway, causing Tim to startle for the second time that morning. “Our menu this morning consists of spinach and feta quiche, sliced fruit, and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.” He bows slightly to Tim. “Alfred Pennyworth, at your service. We’d be delighted to have you, Master Drake.”
“That’s really kind of you, but I would hate to impose...” Tim’s face heats up as he realizes he’s definitely already done that with his impromptu sleepover. “Or, impose any more, I mean,” he amends guiltily.
That earns him a snort of laughter from Jason. “You’re not imposing. At least not any more than Dick does when he swings by every other weekend to guzzle orange juice straight from the carton and fuck up my GTA save files on the PS4 while he does his laundry.”
“Language, Jay,” Bruce grunts while Alfred gives the boy a stern look. The latter seems to be a far more effective form of chastisement, as it causes Jason to shrink back.
“Sorry. But really, you should stay,” he continues to Tim. “Alfie’s cinnamon rolls are like crack, and when we’re finished you can help me ruin some of Dick’s save files.”
Tim hesitates. Breakfast does sound nice—much nicer than whatever box of stale cereal he’s likely to find in the pantry at home. And, if he’s in this deep already, it might be more polite to accept at this point than to refuse...
In the end, it’s his stomach that decides for him, letting out a truly obnoxious-sounding growl.
“I guess the matter is settled then,” Bruce chuckles, leading a very red-faced Tim into the dining room.
The food is every bit as delicious as promised. Tim declines Jason’s offer to borrow some comfier clothes (“You actually slept wearing that? Longest I’ve lasted in a tux was like, four hours, and I was ready to murder someone by the end”/ “Language, Jay...”/ “What? I was!”), but he does remove his jacket and tie, which helps him feel a bit less overdressed for the occasion.
Then again, he fits in just fine with Alfred.
“So how old are you now, Tim?” Bruce asks as Alfred serves up the quiche. “You go to Gotham Academy, correct?”
“Yeah, I’ve been there since kindergarten,” Tim replies, nodding his thanks to the butler as he deposits a piece of quiche onto Tim’s plate. “And I’m twelve years old.”
“So, you’re in, what, sixth grade? Seventh?” Jason pipes up over a mouthful of cinnamon roll.
Tim glances down at his plate, feeling his cheeks burn. He hates explaining this, no matter how much his parents try to convince him it will give him an edge one day on his college applications and future job prospects. “Ninth, actually,” he corrects. “I, um, tested out of second and fifth.”
Jason gives a low whistle. “Damn...” he mutters, earning a warning look from Alfred.
“That’s very impressive,” Bruce says, looking thoughtful. “I wasn’t aware that Gotham Academy allowed students to skip grades.”
They don’t, normally. In fact, all of the counselors had advised against it—something about potential long term negative impacts on peer social relations, or whatever. But when your parents have a hand in the pocket of half the members of the school board, it seems anything is possible.
“They... made a bit of an exception,” Tim evades. “Plus, I’m actually almost thirteen.”
(Well, in four months, that is.)
“That’s cool,” Jason says, stabbing a grape on the end of his fork tine. “I’ll be sixteen this summer.” He grins and glances over at Bruce. “You’re gonna let me drive the Jag when I get my license, right B?”
“You’ll drive whatever has the highest safety rating,” Bruce answers automatically. “Which I’ve actually been researching extensively, and have determined...”
Jason rolls his eyes and mouths a very exasperated here we go again at Tim and Alfred as Bruce launches into a long-winded explanation of the various high end mid-size sedans on the market and their respective safety ratings. At some point, Jason starts flapping his lips and opening and closing his hand in a puppet motion whenever Bruce is looking away, and Tim has to keep taking bites of his quiche to hide his grin.
(Bruce keeps such a straight face that Tim might think he was unaware of his son’s mocking, if not for the fond little twinkle in the corner of his eye.)
“So what kind of stuff do you like to do?” Jason asks him once Bruce has finished his little spiel about the cars.
You mean besides stalking you guys most nights? Tim’s mind supplies helpfully.
“I like photography,” is what he actually says. “Urban shots, mostly. And I skateboard sometimes.” He pauses, then adds, “And I’m kind of into coding.”
“Coding, huh?” Bruce looks genuinely interested. “What type of coding?”
“Well,” Tim begins, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in his stomach because holy shit Batman is asking him about his hobbies. “I started out teaching myself Java and Python, but then I kinda just... branched out? I like to design my own apps and stuff. It’s all pretty intuitive.”
Jason snorts, breathing out a quiet, “sure it is” and Tim instantly kicks himself. He’s really got to work on not sounding like a stuck-up little prick. Most of his classmates have already labeled him one, on account of him being a full head shorter than them while also taking Honors Bio.
“That’s cool though,” Jason throws in when Tim goes quiet. “I’m not that great at computer stuff. I’ve always liked the humanities better. But Bruce and Dick are always trying to get me into it, so I know the basics. It’s awesome that you like it, though.”
Something in Tim’s gut untwists at Jason’s casual remark. Maybe he hasn’t totally fucked this up yet.
From there, the conversation shifts to Jason describing the D&D campaign he’s running with the school’s drama club during their off-season. Tim’s never played before—as that’s the kind of activity that would require having multiple friends at once—but it honestly sounds fascinating. He’s so invested in the explanation that he almost doesn’t notice when his phone starts to buzz.
Mom, the caller ID reads. Tim gulps.
“Excuse me just a moment please, I really need to take this,” Tim apologizes, getting to his feet. “It’s my parents.”
“Absolutely, go right ahead,” Bruce agrees with a nod, and Tim slips back into the hall they entered through.
Once out of the room, he takes a deep breath, then accepts the call. “Hi Mom.”
“Timothy!” Janet exclaims, sounding about as flustered as he’s ever heard her. “Oh my goodness, we just landed at San Pedro. Please tell me you made it home.”
Tim winces. “I’m... actually still at the Waynes?”
“You’re what?” Her pitch goes up at least an octave.
“They invited me to stay for breakfast,” Tim explains quickly. “They were really insistent. I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Well you’d better not be being rude! Your father and I have been trying to get a partnership with Wayne Enterprises ever since they first branched out into textiles back in ‘09. I swear to all things holy, Timothy, you’d better not mess this up for us...”
Tim rolls his eyes. After all, he’s not the one who forgot his twelve-year-son at the neighbor’s gala and jetted off to Central America before even realizing his mistake, but sure, he’ll try to keep it together.
“I won’t, Mom,” he promises. “I’ve been on my best behavior, just like you taught me.”
That seems to mollify her. She sighs, but it sounds more tired than exasperated this time. “Well, please see that you continue to do so.” There’s a pause, then, in a gentler tone she adds, “We really are glad to hear you’re alright, Tim. We realized just after take-off, and spent the entire flight fretting.”
(That admission shouldn’t make Tim feel as warm as it does.)
“I’m perfectly fine,” he assures her. “The Waynes have been really nice to me.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” Janet says, and she sounds as though she truly means it. “Please give Mr. Wayne our apologies for the inconvenience, as well as our sincerest thanks for his hospitality.”
“I will.”
“Alright. Well your father has just gotten the last of our luggage from the carousel, so we’ll be on our way to the hotel now,” she says. “Be sure to remember your manners. We’ll chat soon, alright? Bye for now.”
“Bye Mom, love y–”
The line cuts out.
Tim closes his eyes and allows himself two full breaths. Then he plasters on a smile and heads back into the dining room.