Chapter Text
Post-patrol briefings have always been Tim’s least favorite part of the night.
It’s not often that they have them—enough of Steph and Dick’s complaining had led an exasperated Bruce to reduce the frequency to once a week—but they’re boring at best and hellish at worst when they follow a long, hard night. Bruce gives a recap of the week’s crime rates, assigns cases, and reminds anyone who needs to hear it that yes, Dick, you do have to turn in your mission report in a timely manner; and no, Jason, don’t exchange your rubber bullets for real ones when Bruce goes out on a business trip next week.
Tonight’s patrol had been particularly awful. Steph was out of commission due to catching the flu, so they were down a team member; in fact, the one that had been assigned to patrol with Tim. As if the Gothamites on his route could sense he was alone, they decided that tonight would be a brilliant time for crimes of all nature. Tim stopped four muggings, two rapists, a gunfight, and caught whiff of an illegal drug ring. By the time he was able to turn in for the night, he was wrung out and exhausted.
And whoop-de-do, it’s Saturday, which means he’s currently collapsed in a chair listening to Bruce tell them what they already know. Yes, they know crime rates are stagnant. Yes, they know there haven’t been any Arkham breakouts in the past month. No, Bruce, that does not mean the Joker is planning an evil scheme, he’s probably just cackling at the thought of nothing.
Everyone minus Steph is in the Batcave, sitting around a circular table as Bruce gives them a rundown with an honest-to-god whiteboard. Every once in a while he’ll pause to make sure everyone is listening, then go back to droning on.
Tim’s going through his playlist in his head. He goes through eight songs before he hears Bruce call his name.
“Yes?” he says, snapping his head up and stifling a yawn. Shit, he didn’t mean to zone out so obviously.
“Can you tell me what I was just talking about?”
Everyone’s eyes are on Tim. He scrambles to think of something, anything from the briefing that he can remember, but nothing comes to mind. “Uh… crime?”
Bruce is unamused. Tim winces. “Since you were unable to pay attention, I’ll be assigning this mission to you,” he says amid snickers from around the table. Tim shoots a glare at Jason and Dick, who each smile innocently.
Bruce hands him a few files, which he opens. He skims the pages—something about a kryptonite smuggling ring in Metropolis. “Why do we care what happens in Metropolis? Can’t Superman handle it?”
Bruce gives him a dry look. “If you’d been listening, you’d know exactly why. Pay attention this time.” Tim huffs, but doesn’t snap back. Bruce continues. “Superman is off-planet for League-related matters. Superboy”—Tim scoffs—“has been left in charge of Metropolis in the meantime. The target is estimated to have an extensive supply, though we’re not sure of exactly how much nor what it is planned for. Seeing as Superboy is relatively inexperienced and, as a Kryptonian, heavily impacted by the substance, I volunteered one of us to help him out.”
Ugh, of course Tim had to goof off the night B’s assigning babysitters.
“So, what exactly is the plan?” Tim asks with a grimace, not able to keep from yawning this time. God, he’s so tired.
Tim doesn’t want to help Superboy out, not in a million years. He’s known for being reckless and impulsive, ‘saving the day’ with an immense amount of collateral damage. Besides that, he takes nothing seriously! The few times Tim’s worked with the meta, he’s paused in the middle of missions to flirt with swooning girls or crack unlimited jokes that are certainly not funny. It’s distracting and unprofessional.
He goes over to the next file, presumably the plan, as Bruce explains. “It’ll be an undercover mission between you two. Get close to the suspect and earn his trust. If our intel is correct, the head of the operation is a man named Charles LaBelle. More information is in the file. You start tomorrow.”
Metropolis is cold.
It has no fucking right to be, since it’s March and therefore should be warm, but fine. Whatever.
He’s supposed to be meeting Kon in a coffee shop where LaBelle usually frequents, but Kon’s half an hour late. To rub salt in the wound, Tim got here half an hour early, so he’s just been sitting at a table by himself for sixty minutes, shivering and cursing Superboy’s name. He didn’t order coffee because he was planning on Kon being here on time, and was thinking it’d help their covers to order at the same time. Now he’s deeply regretting that choice.
And you know what? He’s also deeply regretting not paying attention in last night’s briefing.
The whole mission is an insult to undercover work. Bruce gave him the alias ‘Tim Draper,’ with no specific instructions. If it’s just his last name changing, it makes no fucking difference in Tim’s opinion. Hardly undercover.
He’d brought the issue up to Bruce, who just shrugged and told him that since he wasn’t a very public figure yet (sure, he’s been to galas, but no one is writing news reports about him), he didn’t need to go all in.
It’s getting closer and closer to the time when the file says LaBelle usually comes in. Tim taps his foot in agitation. He and Kon were supposed to have met up early so that they could go over cover stories, but he guesses that’s off the table now. They’ll probably have to play it by ear.
The bell above the door rings softly. Tim looks up from his phone to see Kon finally walking in, looking unbothered and casual as he meets eyes with Tim. The indifference in his eyes turns amused, the corner of his mouth tilting up when he sits down.
“So,” he says, and Tim immediately hates the amusement in his voice. “You cold?”
Tim can see him note the way his arms are tightly wrapped around himself and how the tip of his nose is turning pink. He glares back. “I am not cold,” he argues, well aware that Kon can tell he’s lying. “You’re late.”
Kon shrugs. “I’m here, aren’t I?” Tim has to bite his cheek to keep from screaming. He’s not sure he can even survive five minutes of this; what was Bruce thinking?
Before he can chew Kon out, the door opens again and a thirty-something blonde man walks in.
At first glance, Charles LaBelle doesn’t look any more special than your average white guy. Khaki shorts, loose t-shirt, worn-down sneakers. With the cheerful expression on his face, Tim never would have picked him out as a criminal.
“There he is,” he whispers to Kon. “C’mon.” The plan is to make conversation with Charles and then sit down with him, plant a bug, and get out. If all goes well, they should be done in twenty minutes and Tim can get back to the Manor before his WE meeting. He and Kon walk over, pretending to examine the menu on the wall.
“You know,” Charles says after a couple of minutes of their pretend-indecisiveness, “the vanilla chocolate chip frappe is pretty good. You should try it.”
Kon smiles. “Yeah?” He steps up to the barista. “Two of those vanilla chocolate chip frappes, then, and a blondie for the lady.” He winks at Tim, who only barely manages not to glower at him. Just a couple minutes.
Charles orders the same drink for himself, plus some extra treats. Tim’s appalled at how much sugar the guy must consume per day, and it’s not even noon yet.
When the barista turns her back to get some pastry, Kon quickly and carefully uses his TTK to take the guy’s wallet from his pocket. Tim shoots him a look. What the hell? he mouths, but he doesn’t get an answer beyond another wink. The wallet floats over to Kon’s waiting hand, carefully tucked out of view right before Charles checks his pockets.
“Oh, crap,” Charles says, grabbing Tim and Kon’s attention. “Where’s my wallet?” He pats around his pockets for a second before sighing. The pout on his lips looks unsettling on a grown man. “Hey, miss, I gotta cancel that order—”
“Whoa!” Kon cuts in. “We’ll cover you, don’t worry!” He holds up a different wallet—is that Tim’s?—and takes out a few bills.
A smile breaks out on Charles’ face. “Really, man? You don’t hafta!”
Kon waves him off. “You gave us that sick recommendation, it’s the least we can do.” He pays for Charles (really, Tim’s paying for it, Tim thinks with a sour expression) and grabs the coffee and blondie when the barista hands them over, passing the abominations to Tim and gesturing to a table. Charles waits by the counter as the barista finishes his drink.
As soon as they’re sitting, Tim glares. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses, snatching his wallet out of Kon’s grasp. Kon only chuckles.
“Can’t take a joke, Boy Wonder?” His eyes gleam.
“You’re so… so…”
“Intelligent? Witty? Ruggedly handsome?”
Tim scowls. “Try incompetent.” Kon just shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee, a smug grin resting on his face. Tim wants to slap it off. “I can’t believe I got stuck working this with you,” he mutters, sipping his own coffee and grimacing at the abhorrent amount of sugar in it.
Kon narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
With a scoff, Tim says, “It means I could get this mission done ten times as fast and definitely more efficiently if I was working alone.” He’s never been a fan of Superboy’s methods, how out of control he always is, but he never knew he was such an infuriating person before today. “You’re impulsive and arrogant and I could be making valuable use of my time right now, but no, I have to work with you.”
A malicious twinkle shines in Kon’s eyes. “Oh, trust me. I can make it worse.”
Charles loudly thanks the barista and starts slurping his coffee. How it’s even possible to slurp a full drink, Tim doesn’t know, but he knows it’s putting him one year closer to death.
When Charles passes by their table, Kon calls out, “Hey, wanna sit with us?”
As soon as the mission’s over, Tim is going to chew him out for being so careless and obvious. What is he thinking? Charles is going to suspect something, and they’ll be found out, and it will be especially awful since they don’t have any disguises on—
“Sure!”
Tim blinks at the easy acceptance. Charles sits down across from them with a bright smile.
“I’m Charles,” he says cheerfully. “What about y’all?”
Tim can safely say this is the first time in at least four years that he’s heard someone say y’all outside of Smallville. It’s unnerving. Especially for a criminal.
“I’m Conner,” Kon says. Before Tim can open his mouth, Kon slings an arm around his shoulders and says with a shit-eating grin, “This is my boyfriend, Tim.”
Tim sees red.
“Aww, cute!” Charles coos, placing a hand on his heart like a white suburban mom when little Brantleigh comes home from school with a sloppily made Mother’s Day card. “How long have you been together?”
Kon squeezes Tim’s shoulder, still squishing him to his side. “About a year,” he says, and adds, “isn’t that right?”
Tim forces a smile that he’s sure looks as unnatural as it feels. “Yup.”
He busies himself for most of the next fifteen minutes by eating pieces of his blondie and imagining what Kon would look like with a kryptonite dagger in his arm. Probably pale and agonized, hopefully crying and screaming. The thought soothes him.
The two other guys at the table are talking about football or something. Apparently Charles is very passionate about his fantasy league. He invites Tim and Kon to come play with him and his ‘buddies,’ and Tim is planning to take him up on that never. He loses track of the conversation around the time the topic changes to ‘the problem with mascots lately.’
Charles eventually takes his leave (claiming he’s got a “dumb meeting,” which will probably have to do with the smuggling operation), but not before giving Kon his phone number with a promise to text him his favorite memes. At least they’d managed to plant the bug without him realizing—Tim slipped it into his bag while he was ranting about something inconsequential—although it was far easier than it should’ve been. Is Bruce sure this is the right guy?
Right as the door closes behind him, Tim wheels on Kon. “What the fuck did you do?” he whispers, venom in his voice. Thank everloving fuck this is the only time they’ll have to see Charles outside of costume.
Kon just smirks, smugness emanating off of him in waves. “I dunno, seeing you squirm is just so fun. Tell me, is your face always that tomato color, or is it just my effect?” He takes an arrogant sip of his gross sugary coffee and winks.
“You,” Tim seethes, standing up and snatching his demolished blondie and still-full coffee from the table, “are the most pretentious, infuriating asshole I’ve ever had the displeasure of laying my eyes on.”
“Are you saying I have a special place in your heart?”
“I’m saying you’ll have a special place in the ground if you ever pull something like that again.”
Kon throws his head back and laughs, jovial and condescending and absolutely grating on Tim’s nerves. “I’d like to see you try, Wonder Boy.”
Sunday is movie night.
Bruce usually refuses to skip patrol, but everyone else is sprawled out on the couch or armchairs as Dick scrolls through streaming channels. They rotate turns every week. Dick usually picks something Disney or superhero-related, Jason chooses a period piece, Tim picks new releases or stop motion, and Damian always wants a documentary. Tim has learned way too much about the mating lives of frogs and octopi since his little brother was introduced into the rotation.
Tim’s been ranting about the mission from this morning since dinner, albeit omitting the parts about their supposed ‘relationship,’ almost yelling with how much vitriol he puts into his voice. Kon deserves nothing less, after all.
“—and he stole my wallet! Who the hell does that?!”
He’s on the couch, squished between Dick and Jason while Cass plays with his hair from where she’s perched on the back. Steph sits with her feet over one arm of a plush chair, facing the TV and munching on a mix of popcorn and sour candy. Damian was banished to the floor after picking fights.
Finished going through Netflix, Dick clicks on Disney Plus. Jason says, “We’re rich, Tim. It’s not like your bank account’s gonna feel it.”
Tim huffs. “That doesn’t make it okay!” He glares daggers at the TV. Jason ruffles his hair.
“Y’know, Tim,” Dick says, peering at him from the corner of his eye, “you’ve been talking an awful lot about this guy for someone you don’t like.”
“That’s because I am vocal about hatred,” Tim replies easily, stealing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on Dick’s lap. “And I hate him.”
Jason wraps an arm around Tim’s shoulders, locking him into his side. Tim struggles against him. “You know,” Jason starts (fuck if he doesn’t sound like Dick), and Tim can hear the smirk in his voice, “Wally and Linda used to hate each other.” Tim freezes.
“...What are you getting at.”
Dick cuts in. “That’s right! I remember Wally’s nightly spiel about how ‘awful’ and ‘hellish’ he thought she was. It only lasted a year or two before they were in the bedroom together.”
Heat rises to Tim’s cheeks and he struggles harder this time, but Jason only tightens his grip. Cass pats his head from above.
Steph’s smile is cruel and malevolent when she says, “He probably doesn’t know what we’re talking about. B hasn’t given him The Talk.”
Stephanie Brown is officially on the List.
“I only moved in two years ago!” Tim says. Of course he knows what they’re talking about—he’s eighteen, for god’s sake!
Cass giggles. Jason boops Tim’s nose. “It’s really very common for people your age to experience urges such as this,” he says in a phony serious voice. “There’s no need to be embarrassed! We’re here for you and your rampant hormones, Timmy, don’t you worry.” Steph cackles, dropping off the armchair to the carpet with a thud.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Tim growls, twisting around every which way to test Jason’s grip. God, he thought he could rant in peace here! The whole point of family is to stand in solidarity when a sibling is wronged, not to join in on the torment!
They torture him for a few more minutes, but eventually are quieted down by Alfred, who insists that if they do not start the movie in the next sixty seconds, they will all be sent off to an early bedtime. Dick selects Anastasia and they settle in, devouring popcorn and keeping their eyes glued to the screen.
No one has spoken since the argument, save for the occasional movie commentary from Dick, which Jason shuts down as soon as it begins by smothering him with pillows. All in all, a normal movie night.
Tim almost jumps when Damian pipes up from the floor, having forgotten the youngest was even in the room with them.
“Oh, Drake,” he calls, not taking his eyes away from the screen, “it’s you and the clone.” He says it right as Anastasia and Dimitri first clash, exchanging heated banter with romantic undertones. Frustrated doesn’t even begin to describe Tim’s feelings right now.
To prove a point, he pounces.
He flies off of the sofa, tackling the younger boy to the ground and clawing at him. He doesn’t manage to break any skin before Dick yanks him away, trapping him in his arms as he thrashes and bites the air.
Damian looks appalled, standing and smoothing out wrinkles on his jeans. “I knew you were feral, but this is a stretch for even you, Drake,” he sneers, lip curling up in disgust. “I suggest you take whatever medicine has been prescribed for you before we all reap the consequences.”
Dick shifts Tim to hold him with one arm, using the other to point sternly at Damian. “Hey, we don’t joke like that.” Turning to Tim, he adds, “And we certainly don’t attack our siblings. Both of you, apologize.”
They glare at each other, but both Tim and Damian eventually mumble a half-hearted sorry. Dick seems satisfied, and they watch the rest of the movie in silence.
Kon really ruins everything, doesn’t he?
Monday rolls around and Tim is caught by Bruce in the kitchen as he pours ingredients into a concoction he likes to call Heaven, consisting of a can each of Red Bull, Monster, and Nos. He only makes it when he’s on day three or more of zero rest, since at that point he’s too tired to care about getting caught.
Bruce has a case file in his hands, so it seems he’s also got something to hide from Alfred, who has a strict ‘no vigilante work upstairs’ rule. His mouth is already open to say something, but he stops and narrows his eyes when he catches sight of Tim’s handiwork.
“You really shouldn’t be drinking that,” he says.
Tim just quirks an eyebrow. “And you shouldn’t have that up here.” He takes a sip, maintaining eye contact. The stare-off lasts for a minute or two, but eventually, Bruce just sighs and they both sit down at the table.
“Remember the bug you and Superboy planted on Charles?” Tim nods. “Well, it’s been picking up some good conversation. It’s still unclear exactly what the long-term goal is, but there’s a meeting in a couple days that should give us more information. You and Superboy will—”
“Wait, wait, wait. Hold up,” Tim interrupts, holding up a palm. “You said we’d be done after planting the bug. If it’s still there, why do we need to go in?”
Bruce runs a hand through his hair impatiently. “I know what I said. But they’re having some kind of demonstration that we need eyes and ears for.”
Prickling, Tim argues, “Then why can’t someone else do it?” He’ll sooner throw himself off of the Wayne Enterprises building than willingly work with Kon again. He’d finally gone a couple hours without thinking of the op from hell, only to be thrown back to the lions in no time at all!
“You both have already earned Charles’ trust,” Bruce explains, trying to stay level. “It’s most practical to send you in again, rather than attempt to gain the same rapport in a time-crunch.”
“Rapport?” Tim scoffs, incredulous. “We spoke on one occasion! I barely made any conversation with him. Ask Kon if you need to, but I’m not going.”
Sighing, Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Tim is immediately insulted. He does not need to be treated like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum! “You’re being dramatic,” Bruce says. Tim opens his mouth to snap back, but Bruce keeps going before he can say anything. “I’m going to remind you that Kon is susceptible to the side effects of kryptonite and therefore unable to take on this operation by himself. And if you’ll stop complaining for a moment, I’d like to let you know another development about this case that you’ll most likely want to hear.”
Tim pouts, but begrudgingly lets him continue. “The bug picked up chatter regarding the trafficking ring you’re currently investigating.”
Despite himself, Tim perks up. He’s been working on this case for a month already, but there haven’t been any leads that have held up. People have been disappearing without a trace, only for their bodies to show up a couple days later with signs of overdose. He’d asked Jason to help out, but both of them together were only able to find trivial pieces of information. They’d covered their bases well. “What did they say?”
“Not much. Victims’ names were thrown around, but it’s as good a lead as you’ll get. At the meeting on Wednesday, a few people supposedly associated with the trafficking ring will be in attendance. It’ll be a huge advantage in our pocket if we go.”
It isn’t much, but it’s enough to intrigue Tim. But does he really want to hang out with Superboy more than he really has to?
…He supposes he does really have to. It involves a trafficking ring—Tim’s not a monster. He wants to help people.
Just…
This all sounds pretty fucking flawed, in Tim’s professional opinion. Not to mention how suspicious Bruce has been acting during this conversation.
Bruce’s tells are subtle, but Tim built his Robin career on learning to decipher even the most invisible changes in his behavior. Like the vein in his forehead that bulges when he’s stressed, or the way he scratches his neck when he’s regretting a fight, or how he taps his foot when he’s hiding something.
The latter of which he’s doing right now.
Tim brings his drink up to his lips, the sweet rush of artificially flavored caffeine allowing for a semi-sharper mind for a few seconds. After a moment of contemplation, he concedes. “Fine.”
Bruce lets out a breath, a relieved smile taking over his face. It does nothing to quell Tim’s suspicions.
Tim gets up to go back to the Cave, shouting over his shoulder, “You owe me big time!”