Timothy Jackson Drake was... something. A seventeen-year-old almost-dropout billionaire CEO of Wayne Enterprises who was adopted by Bruce fucking Wayne...

And your drummer.

Yes, Tim Drake, one of the most renowned heirs in Gotham, if not the world, was part of your shitty punk rock band. Instead of sitting straight in some cushy chair with some tea and classical music on the radio, he preferred to hit a drumset in your rundown garage for hours on end, listening to Mia Webb's vocals, Alistair Dubois's keyboard, and your electric guitar.

And for a guy with red, raw knuckles from god knows what, and shaky, twig arms who constantly looked like he was about two seconds away from sleeping, he was pretty good at hitting things. Loudly.

Unsurprisingly, people showed your band a little more favor when he was around — not that you were complaining... much. You landed a gig at some nearby place, and that's all you could've asked for, really.

The only thing that irked you was the fact that within the hour of setting up and the now fifteen minutes post-show, what felt like a hundred people had come up for a picture with the band. And about half of them were just for Tim. And because of the way you guys had set-up just about everything, from backstage to the gig set-up that you were cleaning up, you had to take the pictures.

You did it anyways. At least, until you guys finally moved everything backstage. You and Tim were coming up with a backing for a new track — you played your electric without the amp and Tim used his drumsticks on the nearest hittable things.

And when someone new came up to ask for pictures, maybe you played your guitar a little harder. Just so you could pretend you didn't hear her, even though she was in front of you. Of course, you ended up taking the picture anyways.

"What was that about?" Tim asked, cocking a brow as his bruised hands picked up the drumsticks again. You scoffed. He rolled his eyes, twirling a stick. "You know what I'm talking about. Are you seriously jealous of a fan?"