Work Text:
Looking back, the experience is sort of hilarious. At the time it had been a complete mess, but by now it's something of a family joke.
Tim has just settled into his own house in the Gotham suburbs, far out enough that it technically isn't Gotham anymore. The suburbs really aren't his first choice—in fact he does still keep an apartment in the heart of the city for rougher nights—but Conner had been weirdly insistent. Fact is just that he likes the quiet life of Smallville more than he'd ever care to admit and wants to keep a part of that in their new home.
It's been a few weeks, but they still only have about half of their boxes unpacked. Alfred would be scandalized to know that he still hasn't found which one has all the plates and that they have just been eating off napkins and straight out of the takeout box. But between their schedules, there really isn't too much time to get things in order. While Conner's day life is a little more lax, Tim is a full time vigilante by night and corporate executive by day. Hell, even Bruce probably manages to sleep more than he does.
Tim makes the commute back to the house before lunch to meet Stephanie. She and Cass are going to be looking after Krypto while Conner is on a Titans mission, which Tim doesn't entirely understand, but neither he nor Conner were about to fight the girls' enthusiasm over watching the super powered canine. According to Steph, "His super powers are in direct correlation with his super cuteness. It's science, Timmy." Tim doesn't think Steph really understands what it's like to try to take Krypto on a walk, but he learned years ago to not tell her no.
He pulls up into the driveway and parks the car. He gets out and takes about two steps down the walk before he notices a police patrol car parked just at the edge of their yard with its front hood up. Tim returns his thermos to his car and approaches them. He doesn't have the same kind of talent at mechanics as Jason (and God, he has to; it's a survival skill with how rough Dick is on a bike) or Bruce, but he knows a thing or two more than the average bear.
"Everything all right, officers," Tim asks. "Need a hand?"
The officers both look up, and Tim immediately can see the tension in their stance. "You live here," one asks, inclining his head up at the house.
"Yes," Tim says. It comes out more like a question.
"Timothy Drake," his partner asks.
"Yes," Tim repeats warily.
"You're under arrest."
``
Stephanie hops her way up the front porch steps and reaches for the doorknob. Not expecting it to be locked, she nearly collides nose first with the damned thing. She starts to dig around in her purse for the keys again—Tim gave her a spare one the week he and Conner moved in—but then stops short. The door is locked. Tim's car is in the driveway, and he knew she was coming to meet him, but the door is locked.
Bat-Paranoia™, she thinks to herself, but she still has a nagging feeling in her gut. She backtracks and goes to check the mailbox. It's still full. Red flag. Tim might be a bit of a slob, but he is also OCD enough to never leave the mail in the box longer than necessary. She jogs back up to his car and peeks inside. His thermos is in the cup holder and his suit jacket folded on the passenger seat. Red flag, red flag, red flag.
Steph pulls out her phone and calls him. It rings until voicemail. She then sends a text.
[Steph]: where u @?
She stares at the screen for a while, but the little delivered notification never changes to read at, and a little incoming dialogue bubble never appears. She tries calling him again, but the results are the same.
Steph leans against Tim's car and stares at the front door with narrowed eyes. She is overreacting. She has to be. First off, while Tim indeed doesn't like to be without his technology, he is nowhere near as glued to his phone as Damian is. It's not so out of line for him to miss a couple of phone calls. Hell, for all Steph knows he's on the toilet and locked the door behind him so she wouldn't barge into the house in the middle of his issues. Also, there isn't any noise coming from the house. Assuming something foul was afoot and Tim had been jumped, Krypto would be making an ungodly scene in there. And shit, at that point it would be more prudent to worry about whatever home invaders the super pup was using as a chew toy than Tim himself.
But still. She's got this weird feeling, so she thumbs through her contacts and places another call.
"BG3, what it do," Conner answers loudly, and Steph grins. Conner and Tim are somehow both the strangest couple and also such high degrees of dorks that it would be insane for them not to be dating.
"Clone bone, what up," she answers. "Hey, you talk to Timmy today?"
"This morning while he was caffeinating," Conner says. "So, I mean, if you can call that a conversation. Why?"
"I'm at the house to get Super Pup, and his car is here, but the door is locked."
"You have a key, right," Conner answers. Steph answers affirmative. "So, how is that a problem? How is that even a problem without a key. Isn't breaking and entering like the number one Bat themed skill?"
"This may sound dumb," Steph says, "but it just feels weird, I guess?"
"That the front door is locked?"
"And the mail is in the box, and his thermos and jacket are in the car," Steph adds.
Conner pauses. "Ok, not Tim's MO, but what are you getting at?"
"It just feels weird," Steph stresses.
"Well, did you go in there and check it out," Conner asks.
"I just said it feels weird, didn't I," Steph says, waving her free hand around.
Conner sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "Is Batgirl telling me that she's scared to go into a suburban house all alone?"
"Shut up," she snaps. "I've been trained by the most paranoid family on the planet, ok? When I say something feels weird, something feels weird, and I am allowed to be kind of freaked out when that weird is about my best friend, ok?"
Conner doesn't answer, but that's mostly because he appears right beside her about fifteen seconds later. Steph shoves her phone into her back pocket as Conner scans the house. "Only thing in there is Krypto sleeping on the bed like he knows he's not supposed to do, the ass."
"Ok, so I'm being dumb weird, not Bat weird," Steph says, although she isn't convinced.
Conner goes with her into the house and stops Krypto from knocking them both over in his excitement. They load up all his food and toys into Steph's car, and Conner gives Krypto a firm talking to. "I know you aren't stupid. I know you know what I'm saying, even though you like to ignore me because you're an ass. But you be normal for Stephanie. She's like Tim. She's human. Also pretty sure Kara will throw you into the sun if you break her."
For a brief moment, Krypto adopts a solemn look of acceptance before the moment passes and his tongue hangs out of his mouth in a spectacular doggy smile.
Steph gets into her car and says, "Let me know if he calls you." Conner nods, waves, and flies back to the team.
``
When Tim arrives at the county prison, there is a lot of commotion. "Um, big day," he asks casually.
"Round up," one of the officers answers. Tim frowns. This is going to be a huge mess. They lead him inside, and Tim overhears another officer complain that they're going to be processing at least two hundred people. Tim tries very hard not to groan in exasperation. This is going to be an astronomical mess.
It is a bit surprising—although perhaps not considering they need to get through so many people—how fast everything happens. Tim has been on the other side of the business long enough to know what to expect, and he doesn't put up any fuss when he is told to strip down and spread 'em. They give him a blue jumpsuit, white shoes, and take his fingerprints and a blood sample.
"Hm," the woman at the terminal says, sounding a bit surprised. She looks at the paper file. "You aren't in the system."
"No, I wouldn't be," Tim answers. "I didn't do anything."
"Timothy Drake," the woman asks, and Tim nods. She shrugs a little and sends him on his way.
They escort him to a holding cell and push him inside. Tim asks, "When will I get the phone call?"
"Later," the officer answers curtly. Tim sighs and picks himself a spot against the wall. He has a feeling he is in for a long wait.
``
That nagging, weird feeling stays with Steph the entire drive back to Gotham and all through unloading Krypto's toys. The super pup rolls happily with Cassandra on the floor, gleeful of her attacking belly rubs. "Hey, Cass, you haven't heard from Tim today, have you?"
Cass, arms and legs wrapped around the dog, says, "No."
She tilts her head questioningly, and Steph waves her off. If she hasn't talked to Tim any, she wouldn't know anything. Steph pulls out her phone and shoots a text through the Batkids group thread.
[Steph]: anyone heard from Timbo today?
Damian's answer comes, predictably, immediately. It's followed closely by Barbara.
[Damian]: No.
[Babs]: Not since that thing with Two-Face last week
[Dick]: I had to run by the office first thing this morning and he was there. Why? What's up??
[Steph]: He was supposed to meet me when I picked up Krypto earlier but he was a no show. And he isn't answering his phone
[Jason]: what are the odds the little shit just lost all concept of time bc he's a workaholic who fuels himself on caffeine and lack of sleep. Fuck only knows last time he even ate anything
[Dick]: no I made him eat a muffin this morning
[Steph]: ok well let me know if u hear anything
Well, at least he physically made it into the office today. That's good. Steph still thinks something stinks.
``
Tim has never really hung around a holding cell before. The Family usually specializes in more high profile criminals, and even when they do bring in lower level crooks, they don't stick around long. So it's a bit of an experience watching people come in, especially the ones who seem to know each other.
The door opens to let in a tall man with a ragged face of stubble—his moustache in particular is rather fascinating throwback to 1860s—and another bald man in the corner grins. "Hey, man," he cries, pointing at the new arrival, who grins equally as wide. "I remember you. Saw you in Edison—what—six months ago?"
"Yeah, man, they got me again. Same bust and everything," Fancy Moustache says with a what're-you-gonna-do sort of shrug.
"Rough beat, son, rough beat," Baldy says, and Fancy Moustache settles in by him, and they get to chatting.
Another man comes through, and he seems completely uninterested in wearing his jumpsuit properly. It's tied around his waist to show off his back tattoo, which upon closer inspection seems to be his entire family tree for five generations. And not just their names, but their faces too. It's weirdly impressive.
One boy, he can't be any older than eighteen, comes through. He's easily the tallest person in the room, but he's lanky and awkward with big feet. He has pimples and red eyes that probably aren't just from his crying. He hangs on the bars and wails to the officer to give him a chance because "If my mama finds out I got in jail again, she gonna beat me, officer! She gonna beat me dead!"
The officer seems to only just stop himself from rolling his eyes, and he walks back down the hall, very unmoved by the boy's blubbering. Finally, Family Tree snaps, "Shut the fuck up, you bean pole bitch."
``
Steph puts her worry on the backburner as the afternoon goes on, especially after Gar mentions that he was talking to Tim just a while a go on gchat. But it jumps right back up when Dick calls.
"Did you ever hear from Tim," he asks.
"No," Steph says. "But Gar says they gchatted after lunch." Dick makes a confused noise. "What?"
"Well, you seemed worried, so I gave Lucius a call, and he says Tim didn't come back from lunch. I checked at the manor, but Alfred says he's not there either."
"He only uses gchat at the office, though," Steph says. "Fucking Garfield. Why you always lyin'?"
"Yeah," Dick says slowly. "You talked to Conner too, right?"
"First thing," Steph says.
"Hang on," Dick says, and she can hear a bit of shuffling and tapping. "Ok, just sent a text to Kory—hang on—she says she'll ask Bart. Ok, no, he hasn't heard from him either. Where the hell is that kid?"
"I think we should officially be worried," Steph says.
"Let's—let's hold off on officially," Dick says. "At least not be Batman worried. It's only been a few hours."
"Except Tim doesn't not answer his phone," Steph stresses.
Dick sighs, "Yeah, I know."
``
Tim spends a lot of the time watching the clock. Hours drag by. More people come into the cell than go out. The mood is sullen, mostly from about forty minutes ago when a grizzled old man came in and made a beeline for the toilet and proceeded to take care of some very horrible business.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Granddad," Family Tree had hollered at him. "We only get so many flushes, you asshole!"
Granddad had been unperturbed. "Nature calls when it calls," he said.
In his years as a vigilante, Tim has smelled a lot of rank smells. Granddad's business quickly found its way very far up the list.
At 5:30 they are brought food. Tim knows his diet is questionable. He can and probably would be content to live off coffee, marshmallows, and pizza for the rest of time if others around him didn't find it so offensive. But whatever it is exactly they put on his tray—he thinks it's supposed to be meatloaf and potatoes—is too far off the charts for him. He offers it to the man sitting next to him, who shovels his food into his mouth so fast Tim guesses he doesn't see very regular meals. The man takes it with a surprised sort of gratefulness.
"So, what'd you do, pretty boy," the man asks.
"I don't know," Tim answers honestly. No one has told him anything.
"Come on," the man prompts. "They got me on carjacking. Third time." He shakes his head with a vague sort of disappointment in himself. Then he shrugs. "So, what they get you with?"
"I really don't know," Tim repeats.
The man puts down his fork and studies Tim critically. "You mean like you're into so much you don't know which one they caught?"
"No, I mean I really have no idea what's going on," Tim stresses. "I had just gotten home for my lunch break and got picked up."
"Where you work," the man asks.
"Wayne Enterprises," Tim answers.
The man takes another bite from the tray. "I hear old Wayne's got a good hiring program. What you do?"
Tim isn't positive that he should completely announce that he's Bruce Wayne's adopted son, but he offers up a bit. "Basically I'm an executive." Also listing off all his titles and positions in the company seems like a shitty thing to do, especially in front of a man who probably doesn't manage to hold a job down for long.
"No shit," the man exclaims and reaches over and slaps at the arm of another sitting by him. "You hear that, Vinnie? You hear? This kid's a WE executive."
Vinnie laughs loudly. "What, they catch you doing coke off your secretary's ass?"
"Says he don't know what they got him for," the first man says.
Vinnie laughs again. "Got your fingers in a lot of pots, huh?"
Just one Bat and Bird themed pot, Tim thinks. "No," he says. "I really don't know."
Vinnie offers a skeptical look to the first man, but he looks a little unconvinced. Vinnie eyes Tim again. "You high up at WE?"
"Fairly," Tim says vaguely.
"What do you do?"
It launches a brief conversation about the sort of things Tim deals with day to day in the office, peppered with vague notions of very long hours.
"You stay in Gotham," Vinnie asks. "How'd you get picked up out here?"
"I have an apartment there," Tim answers. "Just for really late nights and when my boyfriend is out of town to make the commute easier, but we have a house over in the Meadows."
A few other people are starting to listen in now. "Two houses," Bean Pole Bitch whistles. "Shit, man, how rich are you?"
Tim answers that with a helpless sort of shrug. He is not about to say his yearly salary out loud. Certainly not the trust fund from his parents. And definitely not the sort of stocks Lucius trades for him.
"What kind of car you got?" someone else asks.
"A Redbird," Tim answers. A few jaws drop. "It's an old model," Tim adds, like that makes it less of a big deal. "Had it since I was fifteen. Kind of sentimental." And also delightfully bulletproof and personalized every which way to Sunday.
The longer the questioning goes on, the more intently the man Tim gave his food to stares at him until finally, he says, "Man, you really didn't do anything, did you, pretty boy?"
Tim shakes his head and is surprised when the man jumps to his feet and approaches the bars of the holding cell. "HEY, LAWMAN!" he bellows at the top of his lungs. "LAWMAN, COME OVER HERE. YOU GOTTA GIVE THIS MOTHERFUCKER HIS PHONE CALL. HE AIN'T DONE THIS SHIT! LAWMAN!"
"What the hell," a frazzled looking officer snaps as he storms over. "Back up. Back up now. What are you screaming about?"
The man points right at Tim. "This motherfucker needs his phone call," he says.
"You all need phone calls," the officer says. "He can wait his turn like everyone else."
"But he ain't done it," the man insists. "I done what y'all got me for, but he ain't done nothing. Let the man get a phone call and go home."
A few others sitting by Tim nod enthusiastically, and Tim looks around at them surprised. "I came in here before him," the man who is quickly becoming Tim's new best friend says. "When's my turn coming up? He can have mine."
The officer seems a bit thrown too. "I'll go check," he says and comes back a few minutes later to open the door. "All right, Drake, come on." And Tim is led out before he can really properly thank his new best friend.
"Good luck, pretty boy," Best Friend From Jail yells after them.
``
"Why am I the one on the Timbo hunt," Jason asks.
"Because he's your brother and he's been missing since lunch," Dick answers, buttoning up his vest.
"That's really not long enough to put his face on a milk carton," Jason says. He blows a stream of smoke out the open window. "Plus, don't you think he maybe knows a trick or two to watch his own back?"
"We all screw up every once and a while, Little Wing," Dick says. "I can't go until after this gala is over, Damian won't go, and we're trying to keep from bothering Bruce with it."
Jason rolls his eyes. "God forbid he stress over his pretty little princess."
"Excuse me," Dick says with mock offense. "I am the pretty princess." Jason rolls his eyes harder and flicks his cigarette out the window. He slaps Dick's hands away from trying to put on his cufflinks.
"These don't even match," Jason says, holding up the two clearly different cufflinks. Dick shrugs, and Jason tosses them back. "Even without the mullet, you're an affront to fashion."
"Hey, it was popular then," Dick argues.
Appearing in the doorway, Damian scoffs, "Denial." Jason points at their littlest brother with a smug grin.
"Oh shut up and go suit up," Dick says.
"I still don't see why this is my problem," Jason says, passing Dick a blue tie.
Fastening the tie, Dick says, "Just do it for Steph. She's been worrying all day and trying to convince all the people in the park that Krypto is a normal Earth dog. You've never dealt with that crazy mutt. She deserves a break."
``
"What," Tim cries, disbelieving, because he is pretty sure the officer just told him that he was picked up for cooking and selling narcotics, and that is so very, very wrong. "I didn't do that."
"You realize how often we hear that, right," the officer asks.
"Plenty, I'm sure," Tim answers. "But I didn't do this."
"We have evidence," she says.
"Can I ask what?"
"Video surveillance, and a CI confirmed you to the arresting officers."
Tim highly doubts there was any CI involved at all, and that even if there was, the man just gave an affirmation to get whatever deal he was being promised. It's certainly not the first time Tim has seen that happen. He already knows the answer but still asks, "Could I see this video surveillance?"
"No," the officer answers.
Tim considers another approach. "I was told when I was processed that my fingerprints were not in the system." The officer eyes him for a brief moment and then looks back down at the file. The gears are obviously turning in her head too. "I've also only been referred to as Timothy Drake the entire time I've been here, and that's not my full legal name."
"And what is," the officer asks.
"Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne," Tim says, placing the right emphasis that the officer looks up a little bit startled. Tim keeps his eyes locked with hers. They aren't in the Gotham city limits, but they are still close enough that the name Wayne really only means one thing.
The officer gets up and opens the door. She calls down the hall and whispers in low tones to the other officer that appears. The man looks over her shoulder and gapes a little bit at Tim. He resists the urge to wave back.
"Do we—do we just let him go," the man whispers.
"We can't do that," the woman hisses.
"Bruce Wayne's kid," the man whispers more furiously. "Bruce Wayne's kid! Do you want to be the one responsible for dealing with Wayne and his legal team? Especially if he is innocent?"
"Hey, I'm not involved in this case," she insists. "Except for this part."
"So cut him loose."
"We can't just do that!"
Tim takes pity on them. This mistake isn't their fault, nor the arresting officers, nor anyone else he has dealt with so far. "Am I allowed to bail myself out," Tim asks. "I mean, that is if I'm eligible for bail?"
"Um, I think—Andy, go check," the woman says. Officer Andy takes off at a full sprint and returns a moment later with a freshly printed sheet. The woman reads it over. "Yes," she says. "Yes, you can call the bond office if you like. If you have enough cash on hand, you can go. If not, they can get in touch with someone for you."
"I very much would like to make that call," Tim answers.
``
Dick finally manages to slip away from a group of society women, older ones who used to pinch his cheeks when Bruce first took him in but now are always trying to pinch his ass. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, hoping that a call or text has come through since the last time he checked it three minutes ago.
Nothing. He snags a glass of champagne from a passing tray and puts more distance between himself and jewel-adorned grabby hands.
He spots Damian hiding behind Bruce and wishes he was still small enough to do the same. As it stands, Bruce can only serve as a part time shield now, but that's better than being left out in the open. Dick weaves his way through the crowd, and judging from the vague smile on Bruce's face—not his society smile, something much more real and reserved for his children—he knows exactly what Dick is up to.
And if there was any doubt, Damian certainly clarifies things. "See, Father, Grayson has had enough too. Can we leave now?"
"You really need to learn to get used to these functions, Damian," Bruce says.
"They're pointless," Damian complains.
"They're necessary," Bruce amends. "Dick, something wrong?" Dick looks up from his phone. Bruce inclines his head. "You've have that thing under your nose most of the night."
"Um, no," Dick says. "Just chatting with Kory."
"Oh," Bruce says, arching a brow. "Are you two dating again?"
"No," Dick answers, and he can feel himself being in no way suave or inconspicuous. But better Bruce think he's hiding a torrid repeat love affair with his ex than that Tim is missing. They're lucky Tim already opted out of this particular event and don't have to explain his absence.
Damian starts up another request to leave the gala, which is interrupted by Alfred appearing with Bruce's phone. It's something that never happens unless it's an emergency, so Bruce takes it immediately. Dick splits his attention between looking questioningly at Alfred, worriedly at Bruce, impatiently at his messageless phone, and swatting Damian's hands away from pulling at his collar.
"What," Bruce suddenly growls. "Repeat that, please."
Dick looks first at Alfred—who doesn't look his version of panicked in any way, so Dick guesses this isn't anything League level—and then at Damian—who has also frozen in the middle of the slap fight over the proper degree of looseness of his collar.
"Yes," Bruce says. "I will deal with that immediately." Bruce hangs up and zeroes his gaze in on Dick, who suddenly has flashbacks to that time when he was thirteen and drove the Batmobile without permission and proceeded to get the grounding of his life when Bruce caught him.
"That was an interesting phone call," Bruce says through his teeth.
"Oh," Dick asks, hand slipping around Damian's mouth to cover the little shit actually about to laugh at this.
"That was a phone call asking me to post a thousand dollars bail because Tim was arrested this morning for processing and selling cocaine," Bruce says.
"Oh my God," Dick gasps, and he cannot start typing fast enough.
[Dick]: we found tim. He got arrested
[Steph]: r u fucking kidding. What for???
[Dick]: processing and selling narcotics apparently
[Babs]: no way. Details plz
[Dick]: that's all I have rn. Bail bond agent called bruce for 1k
He locks the phone after seeing Jason's message that comprises of three lines of the laughing and crying face emoji. He looks up and Bruce is glaring. "You don't seem entirely surprised," he says.
"Well, he's sort of been MIA since lunch," Dick offers with a sheepish smile.
Bruce's face twitches. "Get in the car, all of you. You can explain everything, and I mean everything, there."
``
Tim is finally allowed to change back into his own clothes and given back his keys and phone. He turns it on to find a truly appalling number of missed calls and texts, mostly from Steph, Conner, and Dick. Going through them, it's pretty obvious that Steph was starting to think he was dead, and when he gets to the last message, one from Bruce simply saying "at your house," he kind of wishes he was.
He gets a ride home from the bond agency, and all the while his phone blows up with messages. It's obviously gotten through the grapevine that he was MIA and has now been found, and everyone is calling to check in. Tim has exactly zero extra energy to deal with them.
The lady from the bond agency chats with him, asking him what he did, and she doesn't seem at all convinced when he mutters that he didn't do anything. But she drops him off with a cheerful wave, and he thinks she gets way too much enjoyment out of her job.
Bruce is waiting on the front porch, and Tim wants to put his head through a window. But he has to deal with him and whatever questions, because they are going to need to get this entire mishap cleared off his record. It shouldn't be difficult with their connections, but still a hassle.
"Thanks for the bail," Tim says as he trudges up the porch steps. "This whole thing was—“
"Did you do it," Bruce asks.
"—a mess—what?" Tim gapes.
"Did you do it," Bruce repeats.
"Of course not," Tim cries.
"Even for a case, Tim," Bruce says. "I need to know."
"Are you kidding me," Tim asks. Bruce just keeps staring at him. "No, Bruce. No, I didn't do anything. Not for a case, not for anything."
Bruce doesn't blink, and some small part of Tim's mind says that of course Bruce needs to ask, that he would be stupid not to. Hell, even a normal parent would be stupid not to, and this is the Batman. But the rest of him, tired and irritated with the way his day turned out, is angry and hurt that Bruce feels the need to ask not once, not twice, but three times.
Finally Bruce nods and steps to the side to allow Tim into the house where he is immediately swept into a tight hug by Dick and Steph. They explode with a million questions.
"What happened?"
"Narcotics? How could they think you were processing narcotics?"
"You told them you're innocent, right?"
"Was it a clerical error? Did they clear up who actually did it?"
"How did they even confuse you for it?"
"Have you eaten? Do you have any quick food here? We can order a pizza—"
"Did you talk to Conner yet? I told him we found you, but I haven't heard back from him yet. He said he was on duty so—“
"That's quite enough," Alfred says, emerging from the kitchen with a loaded sandwich and cup of chamomile tea on a tray. "Let's allow Master Timothy some room to breathe. Here you are, sir. Eat up."
Tim almost lunges for the sandwich, stuffing nearly half of it into his mouth in one go. "Wow," Dick whistles. "So that answers that question."
Tim gulps down most of the bite. "They brought food around 5:30, but I gave it to my Best Friend From Jail. And I didn't have dinner last night, just that muffin this morning. God, I'm so glad there's beef in this thing." He takes another ravenous bite.
"Your best friend from jail," Damian asks over the top of the couch. "You made friends with the criminals?"
"When you've been falsely arrested and then some guy lets you cut in front of him in the phone call line, you'll have a jail best friend too, brat," Tim grumbles.
``
Tim is still exhausted the next morning as he sits in front of the coffee machine guzzling down cup after cup. After he had succeeded in herding his family out of his house, Conner had called and offered to fly home. As much as Tim would have loved to have him back early, he also just wanted to be left alone. So Conner had just stayed on the phone with him until he fell asleep.
Tim only gets about two and a half hours because Bruce insists on taking care of all this as soon as possible. Which Tim absolutely wants, but he also wouldn't mind getting a real night's sleep.
Dick comes to get Tim at 7:00 sharp and tells him that Bruce will be meeting them with Jim Gordon. Not that the Commish has any say so regarding the police departments out here, but his presence will add even more to Bruce's authority and the sense of urgency in getting all this handled.
"Mr. Wayne," the department's PR head says as they enter the room. He holds out a hand. "We are so sorry for the confusion we seem to have gotten into yesterday. Is there anything we can get you? Some coffee or water? Anything to eat?"
"We can get my son's record cleared," Bruce says, taking a seat and not shaking any hands. Bruce puts on a flirty, playboy act for society parties and his public dating life, and the paparazzi and gossip rags eat it all up. They do far more work in creating the public persona of Bruce Wayne as a flighty, spoiled rich boy, as someone who could never even be considered as a possible suspect in the big question of Who Is The Batman, than Bruce himself ever puts up. And so it usually surprises people who meet him in more business or professional settings just how serious and on the ball he is.
"Um, yes," the PR man says, looking over at the police officers. "If we could—“
"My son was told there was evidence against him. Video surveillance. I want to see it," Bruce says.
"That's not really something we can—“
"And he wasn't a part of the system. Did no one consider this a red flag during processing?"
"The officers were just doing their jobs, Mr. Wayne. We were having a round up yesterday."
"That's all fine," Bruce says. "And I certainly don't blame them for doing their jobs. I just want to know how my son was flagged for this."
"We have a file—“ The PR head waves at the officers to hand it over. He flips it open. "Timothy Drake, date of birth listed as the sixth of January—“
"He legally goes by Timothy Drake-Wayne, has for the past few years," Bruce says. "And his birthday is the nineteenth of June."
The PR head blinks confused. "Social security number 628—“
"No, that is also wrong," Bruce says, motioning for Tim to pull out his card. Tim does.
Red-faced from embarrassment, the PR head tries one more time. "These are the listed phone numbers and past addresses."
Bruce crosses them all off. "Not once have his phone records ever been associated with any of those numbers, and not once has he lived at any of those addresses."
"Your son does possess significant monetary means, Mr. Wayne. Isn't it possible that without you knowing he could easily—“
Bruce's eyes narrow, his nostrils flare, and he looks half a second away from decking this poor guy. Dick and Tim exchange a look that pretty clearly says they feel a little sorry for the him, because he so does not know what kind of bear he is poking, but also aren't about to stop him if he's going to be making wild accusations like that.
Jim's hand drops onto Bruce's shoulder, and he says calmly, "I think it wouldn't be too much trouble to have Lucius Fox pull up Tim's accounts and prove that none of his money has made any mysterious moves. And maybe best to keep accusations within the realms of the facts and evidence, I think." He offers a stern glare of warning that makes the PR head wilt a little bit. The officers with him look pretty frightened for their jobs.
Jim adds, "I think it would also be best to take a look at that tape right now."
When it does finally play, Dick laughs out right. "That's not Tim at all," he tries not to howl, pointing at the screen. The image isn't the highest quality, but to anyone with any sort of an eye, it's clear enough. "Was your CI—“ He makes the most exaggerated air quotations possible. "—blind?"
"Hey now," one of the officers protests. "We—“
"I was a cop too for a while," Dick says. "I know when people are trying to cover their asses on a messed up bust. That's what's happening here. Wouldn't you say, Commish?"
Jim nods pleasantly. "Oh, most definitely so."
Dick turns back to them. "Somewhere down the line, someone made a clerical error and just—I don't know—picked our Tim's name out of the phone book and didn't bother to confirm that this Tim Drake was the one they were looking for."
Bruce stands up before anyone can try to argue further. "My son did not commit any of the crimes you accused him of. I don't know how exactly he was confused with the man who did. I do not care. But I think we have seen enough today to know that you have made a mistake. I want the bail I had to post for him to be refunded. I want his record scrubbed clean of this entire incident. I want it done immediately or I will get my lawyers on the case, and you can rest assured, Mr. Knapp, I can afford the very best in legal counsel."
``
The threat of the Wayne Enterprises legal team descending upon their heads really kicks their asses into overdrive, and Tim receives several phone calls from the departments involved apologizing for what he went through and confirmation that he has been cleared from their systems.
"Well that's good," Conner says, wrangling all of Krypto's toys back into the house from Steph's car. "They handled that shit fast."
"Freaking better have," Steph says in a dark tone, one that suggests she would have been happy to handle everything in classic Spoiler/Batgirl style, ie: punching people in the face until things started going the way she wanted.
Tim nods and makes a note in his phone to find out the real name of his Best Friend From Jail, because in the very least that guy is getting a care package and at the most a job when he gets out.