Chapter Text
The gala started off great—that should’ve been the first sign.
His party rivaled those of the French Aristocrats and no one had even brought up guillotines yet. When people started mentioning those, that’s when you could tell stuff was going to go down. The ‘rise up and eat the rich’ sorta stuff.
No class warfare had happened yet, so Tim was optimistic. His party had be sandal free so far. Perhaps this gala would make the good-kinda news. The news outside of Vicki Vale’s cantankerous ink. Tim had a good feeling about this charity ball.
43 minutes in, someone spiked the punch.
This was not a high school prom. It wasn’t even a sleazier homecoming or snowcoming. There had been no student council forced to hold up the sky and make some cheap decorations while they did so. He had a whole team to make the venue look goddam sparkling—it was twilight up in Wayne Towers. He hadn’t thought it necessary to hire chaperones.
He should have; someone brought Tequila.
The rival managers of the two top pharmacies in Gotham were playing kick the can—or rather kick the bottle—with said Tequila. It wasn’t even good Tequila; it was K-Mart Tequila. This was supposed to be classy, at least up the price range. The elder of the two, Stanley, kicked it too far and Tim caught it with his foot.
“Hey, pass it back!”
Tim grabbed the bottle, pinching his nose. “Get ahold of yourself, Stanley,” It was a wonder Stanley hadn’t broken his back playing. Though Tim supposed the man had direct access to every painkiller on the market. Tim passed the bottle to a waiter. “Get rid of this, please.”
“Buzzkill,” Stanley muttered, hobbling off.
He watched from the wall, tapping his foot. Guests stumbled over their feet as though they’d been tied together. If you were CEO of Gotham’s popular BatBurger franchise, then your feet actually had been tied together by Katherine Wilkins.
Vicki Vale was going to have a field day and castrate Tim while she was at it. He didn’t particularly care for Galas—only musty old people showed up—but he couldn’t handle another scandal. Not after last month.
Last month, the media conspired that Tim was Martian Manhunter in disguise. They were wrong. He'd actually been Miss Martian, but that’s beside the point. Tim had wanted a week off and it snowballed into a whole mess. Bruce had helped him clear it up by creating his own scandal.
At least this gala couldn’t get worse than the Martian Scandle. At most, he’d get a review calling him a child who’d hosted a childish party. Things would be okay.
He’d let himself get lulled into a sense of security. He’d thought it couldn’t go downhill from the smashed wealth waltzing over the hors d'oeuvres. What could be worse than the wasted trophies of capitalism? The buzzed bags of wealth only capable of sloshed mumblings?
What could be worse?
Tim sat, back against the wall, when the armed robbers broke down the door to Wayne Tower. He should have sharpened the blade on a guillotine himself and lopped off his head when he had the chance. He would be memorialized as the worst party host ever.
Lovely. Guests visiting from outside of Gotham got to have a real feel of the city: booze and armed robbery. Throw in some lung damage from repeated exposure to smog, and they’d get the authentic Gotham experience. He was such a considerate host to be so welcoming and spreading Gothamite culture.
If the bullets don’t get you, the pollution will.
Lovely. Lovely. Lovely.
He pushed a slobbering millionaire downward and out of sight. Tim varied between looking at the skylights—that’d he’d just gotten fixed—and the frenzied masses. B better get there before someone got shot; he’d didn’t want to do that paperwork. You’d think it’d go to HR or something, but it always fluttered onto his desk.
It would also look terrible on the front paper.
His guests panicked. Tim tried to shuffle them towards the various exits.
In the middle of the room, a glossy loafer slipped beneath the table cloth. Tim swore and left the mostly contained wealth to chase the escaped part of his flock. He looked skyward for a silhouette as he crept to the appetizer table. Nothing. A second glance and he ducked under the table.
“I’m going to help you—Clark?”
“Tim?”
Clark Kent, Superman himself, was still in his business trousers but had abandoned the glasses and button up to show his uniform beneath. That stupid honorable S was going to ruin his party more than the Tequila already had.
”What are you doing?”
”Bringing out Superman?” He started to slide out of his pants.
If Vicki Vale didn’t catch onto the spiked punch or the armed robbers, she’d hear about Superman.
”Stop stripping right now,” Tim threw Clark back his belt. He bunched up the shirt and tie and dropped it into Clark’s lap. “Superman is not crashing my party.”
“Did Bruce ban me from Gotham again or—”
Tim wouldn’t have been surprised if he had. Bruce had a history of being passive-aggressive like that. He got it from Alfred. That man was the definition of subtly. The word had come into existence simultaneously alongside Alfred’s first side-longed glance or under breath tut. Passive-aggression was Alfred’s second favorite thing to roast sessions, though the two went hand in hand.
But Bruce hadn’t banned Clark from Gotham. That wasn’t the problem.
”Gotham’s elites are held up at gunpoint weekly,” Tim whispered. “If Superman shows up it will be front page that my party was trash!”
“I—” Clark stuttered. “You don’t want me to save the party?”
“Good lord! I have an image to maintain,” Tim wouldn’t be slandered. Not if he could do something about it. He squatted at the edge of the table. “Save me, not the party.”
“What? Where are you going?”
“I’m saving this shindig,” He looked back. ”And Clark, wait till I'm outside the premises,”
He crawled from under the table. He expected it to look cooler, but few people look cool sliding across the floor. Jason or Dick could have done it with pizazz, but they weren’t the ones in the middle of an armed robbery.
Tim dusted himself off and stood up, showing his empty hands to the three robbers. They wore decorative masks: two clowns with a cat in the middle. All three tilted their heads at him.
In the stampede, most of the guests had gotten away. Except for three: Stanley, Katherine, and CEO of BatBurger. The last poor man hadn’t been able to run away, not with his feet tied together.
Tim stood tall, backed by the confidence that Superman wouldn’t let him die. Well, he probably wouldn’t let him die. ” It’s me you want. Tim Drake-Wayne, heir to Gotham’s most—”
”We don't want you,” The right-most robber grumbled.
”What?!” People didn’t often turn down the opportunity to kidnap him. It bruised his ego a bit. “Why not?!”
”We don't want you,” The robber repeated. “Go on Gerald,” The robber elbowed the leader in the middle. “Go do your thing.”
Gerald, the cat mask robber, got down on his knee and dropped his gun. The way it clattered against the marble sounded more like plastic to stone than metal. Gerald reached into his pocket, pulling out a ring box. ”Katherine Wilkins,” He cracked it open “Will you make me the happiest man in the world?”
“Gerald!” Katherine dabbed at her eyes. ” She ran to him, tackling him to the ground. “I do!”
The CEO of Batburger was attempting to scuttle away. He wasn’t moving very far.
Clark—not Superman—crawled from under the table to stand beside Tim: glasses and all. “Is he proposing?”
The 1% loved an elaborate proposal.
”Rich people are crazy, ” Tim sighed and wiped a single tear. ”but that glorious bastard just saved my party.”
His next party was going to have chaperones.