Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tim has never liked nightclubs but the Iceberg Lounge had a special place of hate in his heart. He can point out five places where he got brutally hit by Penguin’s thugs from his vantage point in the booth and can clearly see two windows that he had been sent crashing out of while fighting off goons and henchmen. There was really no point for Tim to be in Penguin’s territory in his civilian identity and he has very stubbornly refused to come here despite the endless invitations from his business partners and fellow high society members and trust fund babies that tended to flock to Tim simply due to his status as the current CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Yet here he was, sitting in a booth nursing a club soda as Tam sat across from him, attempting to calm down their mutual friend, Ella.

Back when Tim was going hardcore as CEO (he would like to think that he’s relaxed a bit in the three or four years since though Lucius always begs to differ), a better part of Tim’s days were spent buttering up the WE Board to get them on his side along with a few of the board members' kids that he knew would go places in the future or who had significant sway over their parents. 

Ella Kimberly had been alright. With a good head on her shoulders and an acceptance letter from UC Berkeley (which her parents did not bribe the school to get her in, Tim checked), Ella had proved to be a good friend to have and had excellent taste in movies that only barely balanced out her horrible taste in sexist cheating men that she was always convinced she could fix. In the few years that he’s known her, Ella had dated a grand total of six men with Boyfriend #6 being the primary reason why Ella had dragged Tim and Tam to Iceberg Lounge , absolutely seething with anger over the impending confrontation that she planned to have with Dominic Auteberry about his very blatant cheating that he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore after their six month anniversary passed. 

“I don’t think he’s going to show up, El!” Tam tries to scream over the music or at least Tim thinks that’s what she said. A few too many close calls with bombs and exploding warehouses combined with the pounding music of the nightclub that was so loud that Tim could swear he could feel the bass running through his chest left his hearing less than stellar. 

“No he will! I tracked his credit card statements and stalked him on Find My Friends- he always spends his Saturday nights here!” Ella screamed back, hands clenched around her Bottega Venetta shoulder bag like she was getting ready to swing it like a bat at the closest unfortunate soul that got within two feet of her.

“He let you track his location?” Tim asks incredulously. Dominic Auteberry must be dumber than he thought if he thought he could cheat on the daughter of a WE board member who spent more money on the gratuity fee than Dominic probably spent in a whole week.

Ella looked like she was about to retort with a scathing statement about the vast canyon between the front and back of Dominic very empty skull (a common phrase after she learned that he had invited a girl to Ella’s apartment where they then proceeded to do the deed on her bed ) but instead stops herself to instead point a perfectly manicured finger at the doorway where Dominic Auteberry just walked through, his arms pulled around two girls as he calls for an open tab from the bartender. 

“Oh boy,” Tam mutters underneath her breath as she rushes to leave the booth, chasing after Ella who had leapt from her seat in order to grab the neck of her most likely now ex-boyfriend, wringing it like a toddler waving a pool noodle through the air. The next few hours go by in a blur. Ella kicks Dominic between the legs, Tam calmly tells Dominic that he could either repay Ella all of the money that she spent on him during their relationship or risk WE exposing all of the money his father’s been laundering out, and Tim fulfills his role by looking very disappointed at Dominic and even throws in a few “wait till I tell Bruce your family’s been stealing from him” snide comments for good measure. They celebrate with a round of shots, spend the night comforting Ella after she bursts into tears over another failed relationship, and then proceed to go bar hopping in an effort to get Ella so drunk that she won’t even remember that Dominic Auteberry existed.

Tim somehow gets from the fourth bar to his apartment, passes out on his kitchen floor, and wakes up to twenty or so phone calls and a news report claiming that he was the primary suspect in Dominic Auteberry’s disappearance. Huh. That was new.

A week later, the police find Auteberry's body and Tim is marched to the police station for questioning. Ok, new plan.

The only thing thriving in Conner’s cramped one bed one bath Crime Alley apartment is the giant splotch of black mold growing on the right corner ceiling of his kitchen area. Having been affectionately named Hank by the neighbor’s kid that he occasionally babysits, Hank has grown to be around five inches in diameter and would probably become sentient one day and eat Conner’s body once he inevitable died from starvation and malnutrition while trying to feed himself solely off of Red Bull and the free bagels given by the Park Row Community Center on the mornings he managed to get there early enough. For someone who shares actual DNA with a billionaire megalomaniac and a news reporter who married a Pulitzer Prize winner, Conner is starting to wonder where it all went wrong.

Perhaps it was Conner’s pride or deep internal need to prove that he’s different from Luthor or Clark but at the horrible age of twenty three, Conner decided to strike out on his own. Despite the hundred or so attempts of both Lois and Ma who tried to convince him to stay in Metropolis or Smallville, Conner finally moved into the cheapest apartment that he could find in Gotham, a city with a strict no-meta fly zone (which meant it was also a no-Clark zone) and rent prices that were dirt cheap if you ignored the very high possibility of getting murdered because this was Gotham , no further explanation needed.

Apparently, working as a freelance investigative reporter in a city notorious for its corrupt law enforcement was not a good move. Information was hard to get and newspaper companies were always bringing up excuses as to why they can’t publish an expose on corporate corruption or government greed because everybody important had already bought off everybody that wasn’t important.

Conner likes to think that he has morals. His reputation as a reporter with some crowning pieces in the Daily Planet has caused some companies or higher ups to attempt to get him to write slanderous specials against enemy organizations or political candidates running against so or so and despite the growl of Conner’s stomach and the number of zeroes on the contracts offered to him, he refused them every time.

And yet one check resting on Conner’s kitchen table just under Hank the Probably Sentient Mold Creature has yet to be tossed in the trash.

He remembers the woman who gave it to him very vividly. Tamara Fox had cut an imposing figure at his doorway, all floral perfume and designer clothing despite the long trench coat she wore to cover up her necklace and watch from Crime Alley’s thieving eyes. Her discussion had been brief and yet the blank check she left on his rickety kitchen table was still resting there as the most expensive thing in Conner’s apartment if you calculated the cost of the gold print around the edges and the silver pen engraved with T. Fox used on it. That and the printed signature that rested at the bottom right corner, proudly proclaiming it as a piece of paper connected to one of the richest men in Gotham- Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.

As someone in the know when it comes to billionaire supervillains with too much time on their hands, Conner would like to think that he knew a bit about the connotations that came with being a Drake and a Wayne. Clark had once spent days obsessing over a rumored transaction between Lex Luthor and the Drakes, a transaction that consisted of several stores of kryptonite that the couple had discovered during some of their archaeological digs and had the news channel on when it was revealed that Luthor had taken over Drake Industries after the unfortunate death of Janet Drake and Jack Drake’s subsequent loss of control over his own company. Conner would have kept a closer eye on it if not for the later news of several unfortunate fires and explosions happening in the storage houses that Clark knew held the argued over kryptonite and although there were rumors of a very vindictive ex-Drake heir destroying the only thing that Luthor had his eye on, Conner was a bit too busy trying to piece together his life after his one year death to be bothered with keeping an eye on Luthor and Timothy Drake’s sudden pissing war over company stocks that had Wall Street cowering in terror as the two made stock prices jump up and down in their attempt to get the other to back down. With Timothy Drake’s later adoption by Bruce Wayne who was another billionaire, it only got worse but Conner wasn’t an economic journalist for a reason and he left Luthor’s business to Clark.

So from what Conner knew about Wayne Enterprises’ CEO Timothy Drake-Wayne, he wasn’t surprised at the check on the table and the implications of Tamara Fox’s words. The job seemed simple- the infamous adoptive son of Brucie Wayne himself had recently landed himself in hot water or something and they needed coverage and proof to clear his good name. Conner had some suspicions that Tamara Fox chose some random reporter fresh from Metropolis with just enough major articles underneath his belt to sound legitimate because they needed someone that nobody would miss because he wouldn’t put it past billionaire CEOs to get rid of a reporter or two for failing the job that they were hired for. Probably. Or maybe Conner had a longstanding stereotype against billionaire CEOs after meeting a grand total of one and deciding that they were all shit and could kiss his ass.

Conner thinks about when rent is due and glances at the check and Tamara Fox’s contract that promised weekly pay until he managed to clear Timothy Drake-Wayne’s name. Against all better judgment, he dials her number into his phone, feeling as if he had just signed his name over to the devil.

Conner is starting to think that he’s a little over his head during his thirty minute walk from his apartment to the designated meeting point that Tamara Fox pointed him towards after he accepted the deal. Something about meeting a contact who could help Conner get information in Gotham since he was new to the city or something though Conner was less concerned about meeting a stranger and more concerned about the six gunshots he heard on the way over.

Looking up from the paper that Conner had hastily scrawled the meeting address onto, Conner double checks the apartment number before ringing himself in over the intercom. A scratchy voice, male by the sound of it, replies a few seconds after and directs him to an elevator down the hall before buzzing him in.

The apartment is a bit nicer than Conner’s but it’s still in Crime Alley so it’s clearly seen better days. Conner makes his way past a teen sitting on the staircase smoking a cigarette and winces as he picks up a loud argument between a couple that he could hear clearly even without his super-hearing. The wallpaper of the apartment floor is peeled back like onion layers and Conner finally arrives in front of Unit 410 which has a whole metal gate in front of the actual door. The door opens without Conner having to even knock and the figure in front of him looks barely twenty-one, maybe twenty-two at best. Despite wearing a Gotham University hoodie pulled over a long sleeved button-up and sweatpants that have a stain near his left sock, Conner’s mystery contact somehow manages to make his gut instinct to warn Conner about danger. Something about the man in front of Conner was off-putting.

Mystery stranger holds out his hand, calloused and rough along the palm. “You must be Conner Kent. Tam told me about you.”

Conner shook it firmly, first impression training kicking in due to the hours Lois spent grilling him through interview questions back when he was trying to get a job at the Daily Planet without using the nepotism card. “Yeah, Ms. Fox told me to come here. She said you could help me with my articles. Pleasure meeting you, Mr…” he trails off.

“Alvin Draper,” mystery stranger answers back easily. “Tam told you about what the problem is right?” 

Conner nodded and wished that he didn’t have to be subjected to the 24/7 news reels of exactly what kind of illegal mess that Timothy Drake-Wayne had gotten himself into.

Alvin smiles, as if he found the entire situation amusing. “We just gotta clear Tim Drake’s name of murder.”

Chapter Text

The fallout of getting accused of murder is surprisingly predictable. WE stocks fell by 14% the first day and Tim silenced his phone by the third hour of news reports launching their latest expose on Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, digging their fingers into every aspect of his past in order to create a psych profile on why exactly he would kill someone despite there being no actual proof. Tim was a suspect, not a proven criminal. At least not yet with how the reporters were framing him.

Despite Bruce’s almost neurotic need to prepare for every possible future event or threat to the family that he can think of while brooding in his office every night, he did not predict one of his own children getting accused of murder instead of him and thus tried to compensate for the self-conceived oversight by calling Tim every half hour with promises of proving his innocence and clearing his name and reputation. Tim stopped picking up after the fifth call.

He can already feel the judgmental stare of his late mother from the corner of his eye. Janet Drake would be annoyed at how he was letting random reporters step over the Drake name, but it’s ok. Tim has a plan for this.

He’s already found a newly arrived reporter from Metropolis to help spread actual evidence to prove his innocence (ignoring the four other reporters that Tam had previously reached out to and who replied with several variations of “fuck off I’m not helping a murderer”) and all he needs to do is find said evidence.

Thankfully, Tim already knows the best person for the job and he can practically hear the ghost of his mother leaning closer in approval, Janet Drake’s voice a claw grip on his left shoulder. “If you want it done correctly, always do it yourself dear.”

Getting accused of murder by a business rival was the only motive that Tim could think of. Tim Drake was known for being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises and that was it. He didn’t have the history of being a cop like Dick or the prejudices that were often cast against his other siblings. Tim was the quiet, well-mannered high society orphaned rich boy who was lucky enough to get adopted by Brucie Wayne on the single fact that they were neighbors and Bruce had to fill the gaping-Jason sized hole in his bleeding heart, or so news outlets claimed.

However, Wayne Enterprises (and to an extension Tim) had their hands in roughly fifteen different branches. It owned refineries, companies, food production lines, and technology research centers and had stepped on enough toes to make hundreds of enemies. But Wayne Enterprises was called Wayne Enterprises for a reason. Bruce would be primary target #1 for a vast majority of those enemies so it had to be something that had happened during Tim’s time at the company.

Tim scatters files from WE and news clippings around the small Crime Alley safehouse that he bought off Jason for the price of a tin of Alfred’s snickerdoodles and the new security plans and camera locations for the Batcave that changed every two weeks. 

Tugging on Steph’s worn Gotham University hoodie over his head, Tim gives the newly transformed safehouse a critical eye for any holes in his identity as Alvin Draper, the hired investigator meant to help Conner Kent. A stack of old take-out boxes (liberated from Dick’s own kitchen) precariously lean to the side and the lack of basic cooking essentials like seasoning bottles paint the picture of a broke college student that could barely take care of themselves (not that Tim had to try very hard for that part). Manila folders, binders of undistinguishable reports, and stacks of paper instead fill the kitchen counters instead of food. Meanwhile, the living room was filled with tech scraps and wiring, some of it clearly taken from discarded appliances and other bits looking much too advanced and new to be in a dingy Crime Alley apartment. However the clutter gave way to organized chaos. Tim, slowly seeping into the role of Alvin, picks his way through his living space with practiced ease and digs files out exactly where he knew they would be. 

All that was left was for the reporter to show up.

Alvin Draper looked like your average bachelor college student. Dirty pizza boxes, stained clothes, and a heavy smell of musk and week-old trash makes Conner’s head spin. He tries to convince himself that his initial gut feeling of fear towards a kid who’s a head shorter than him and probably weighs half his weight was just his stomach trying to turn itself inside out at the smell of Alvin’s apartment.

The kid looks like a student taking 19 hour credits and dying. He looks like he can barely keep himself fed. And Conner’s instincts are telling him to run away from him. To not turn his back on some random kid holding a manilla folder while sipping from a cheap paper cup of coffee out of his other hand, the words SUNDOLLAR plastered around the side.

Conner decides to sit on the couch, the only available sitting space free of clutter, as Alvin makes his way across from him, plopping down onto the small rug that was laid out underneath the dented coffee table. With Alvin folding himself smaller as he works to get comfortable, Conner’s initial feeling of fear dies down significantly. So definitely the smell of the room. When did the kid last take out his trash?

Alvin begins by sliding the folder he was holding across the coffee table to Conner. “Here’s the initial information that I could pull up. I’m just hired to find stuff for you, all this detective work tends to fly over my head a bit.”

Conner opens the file to thick block letters spelling out DOMINIC AUTEBERRY. Things like his gender, height, weight, vaccine history, and even his college transcripts are all covered in the file. Conner is horrified to also see a printed copy of Auteberry’s birth certificate and his credit card statements that are mainly just rows of high-end restaurants and bars with spendings of four digits and over.

Trying to lighten the mood, Conner jokes “So how much are you getting paid to get this stuff for me?”

Alvin’s eyes sparkle. “Enough to pay off my college debt, that’s for sure. And enough remaining after to buy some fancy flat in Robbinsville. You?”

“Yeah definitely enough to pay rent until I die at thirty,” Conner tries to joke but his eyes are still glued to Auteberry’s social security number on page seventeen in the folder. What the fuck -

“Dang this is more than enough to start me off,” Conner manages to choke out. His gut instinct at Alvin Draper is starting to make a lot more sense with it leaning less towards fear about losing a fight to Alvin’s noodle arms that barely fill out the sleeves of his large Gotham University hoodie and more towards getting his identity stolen by a twenty-one year old looking twig who could probably convince the FBI that Conner’s search history was full of “how to make bomb” and “cocaine recipe?” phrases in order to get him arrested. 

Skimming through an entire three page summary on Dominic Auteberry’s life, Conner is starting to piece together just what kind of person he was. Three accusations of sexual assault that were eventually dropped by all of the accusers, a dead father who started his career in business through being a loan shark for immigrant tenants, and a long history of bar brawls, DUIs, and arrests for public intoxication that led to officers getting fired instead of Dominic getting the crime on his record. Besides the women he assaulted and their families, all of the people his father scammed, and all the police officers he got fired, Conner adds Dominic’s young widowed stepmother Laurene Auteberry onto the growing list of people who would want Dominic dead. An article wedged into the manilla folder announced the tragic passing of Dominic’s father two years ago as well as how his stepmother Laurene, who had scandalously married a man thirty years her senior, came into a considerable sum of money after the passing of the Auteberry Patriarch. Clark taught him how to follow money and Laurene was looking very suspicious at the moment. 

After a few minutes of silence, Alvin asks “So, you got anything?”

“Just some possible suspects but nothing concrete,” Conner admits. “Can you tell me more about Laurene Auteberry?”

“Not much. Laurene Auteberry was just a Master’s student in the same school as Dominic. I think she met Dominic’s father at a football game or something back when Dominic was still an undergrad. It was all over the papers a couple years ago. But that reminds me…”

Conner makes a face trying to piece together a timeline for that while Alvin pulls out his laptop, typing furiously away until he flips his laptop around to face Conner. A blog post on Laurene donating to the Jason Todd-Wayne Educational Foundation for Park Row Children is front and center. Conner can’t help but balk at the number of zeroes on the giant check that Laurene, who barely looks older than Conner, is holding up alongside Bruce Wayne.

“Do you know how much money she got from her husband’s will?”

Alvin scrunches his eyebrows together before bending back to dig out a single loose sheet of paper from one of the leaning towers of files sitting around his apartment. “Half of his assets soooo about $75 million?” 

“So she donated half of that to charity.”

Alvin shrugs. “Could be to throw off people if she was going after the son next. Or she’s just a really nice lady.”

“Was she in Dominic’s will?”

“Nah the media claims that the two hated each other. The only people in Dominic’s will was a distant cousin on his mother’s side who lives in Seattle and some… uh lovers.”

So Laurene Auteberry looked like a bust before Conner remembered what Alvin just said. “Wait, you said they hated each other?”

Alvin makes a face. “Well you can’t exactly trust what the Gotham Gazette says about Gotham socialites. They once claimed that Bruce Wayne and Batman were dating each other. That was such a weird month to be on the internet.”

“Ok this is getting us nowhere. Let’s say that Laurene Auteberry doesn’t want her stepson dead. Who else do you think would want some douchebag Socialite dead then just to blame it on the CEO of Wayne Enterprises?”

Now that was a statement that made Alvin perk up a bit. “Actually, I was thinking about that. What if it’s not the same person, but two people individually. Like one person just had it out for Dominic Auteberry and the other person rode off the rumors of Tim Drake being at the scene of the crime in order to accuse him of murder.”

Conner can feel a migraine building. “Ok so there’s two paths we can go right? First is that we find Dominic’s killer in order to prove that Tim Drake didn’t kill him or we find out who bribed who in order to get the media to run articles that Tim Drake killed someone.”

“The first one’s easier but we’ll probably get paid more for the second one,” Alvin said, a curving grin growing on his face. “I bet that we’ll get a bonus pay if we can find out who’s targeting the guy we’re hired by.”

Conner looks at the growing files on the coffee table and all the people that he needs to start looking into. “I’m going to go through these at home tonight if that’s cool with you. I feel like my brain’s gonna burst.” That and the smell of Alvin’s apartment was starting to get to him again.

Alvin shrugs. “Yeah just don’t lose them.”

Police sirens shriek outside of Alvin’s apartment as Conner gets up to leave. “Actually,” Conner stops. “Which precinct found Dominic’s body?”

“33rd,” Alvin easily answers back. “At the Gotham Docks.”

“Maybe we can ask their detectives or coroners. There might be clues on the body.”

Alvin makes a face and Conner can immediately tell that he chose the wrong topic. “Don’t bother with that,” Alvin said. “I can find the reports for you by the end of the week. Just keep your ringer on for when I call you.”

And with that, Conner finds himself hurried out of Alvin’s apartment with less grace than how he walked into it. Alvin hands him a paper slip with a phone number. “Call me if you need information on another lead. I can’t let the big boss think that I’m slacking so keep me updated, alright?”

Conner nods and Alvin closes the door just as Conner’s phone rings with a bank account notification. $5,000 was deposited into your Gotham City Central Bank Account at 12:00pm. Conner feels faint at the amount. That was enough to pay rent for the month and then some. 

Walking past a family grocery store, Conner thinks back to Ma’s habit of baking pies for new neighbors or just people she liked. Maybe he should be a hospitable new neighbor and do Ma proud. Besides, he would also be feeding himself as well and it wouldn’t be an issue if he makes a couple more servings for other people. 

It wasn’t really Jason’s problem that Tim got accused of murder or that Bruce was freaking out down in the Batcave because Tim stopped picking up his calls. Jason rarely even spent time in the manor and by the rules of association, didn’t really consider him to be included in the “family” part of family problems. So while Barbara was busy tearing through every CCTV from the Tricorner all the way to Burnside and the rest of the family was trying to figure out which officer or officer s in the GCPD’s 33rd Precinct was crazy enough to pin a murder on someone like Tim, Jason was kicking it back on the rooftop of Sunset Apartments, munching on one of Alfred’s snickerdoodles while he contemplated which safe house to move into for the next few months or so.

Tim had approached him a week ago, begging to borrow Safehouse #6 for step 9, whatever that meant and Jason requested a fair trade- a tin of Alfred’s snickerdoodles and the newly updated security details for the Batcave despite having already received a neatly worded email from Barbara with all of the new passcodes the same day everything had been reset since it was really about the principle of everything. Jason didn’t want the old man thinking that he had suddenly gone soft or else he’d start asking him if he was free for Thursday family game nights. He had stopped going after the family unanimously banned Scrabble after Jason kept using “entirely unnecessarily long words that only an English major would know”.

Tim probably chose Safehouse #6 because of its prime location in the better part of Crime Alley and because it was a five minute grapple-gun sprint from Tim’s own safehouse and from one of Barbara’s emergency telephone line, one of a few dozen scattered across Gotham in case any one of them lost their comm and needed extraction asap. He probably wouldn’t have asked Jason if he knew that Safehouse #6 was where Jason was currently living in but he had gotten tired of the location anyways, even if it was a hassle to hastily move everything out last minute.

This left Jason in a bit of a bind. He had shoved all of his loose items into Safehouse #screwyoutim which he knew for a fact that Tim didn’t know about but it was also still in Crime Alley and Jason’s landlord probably thought he was dead, deceased, and decaying and would have probably thrown out his stuff after being MIA for half a year if not for the scheduled checks meant to pay for rent.

Sunset Apartments, despite its bright and picturesque name, was a hellhole in disguise. Crappy elevator, crappy musk, and crappy neighbors which included Old Granny Dee who only found joy whenever someone from her high school ended up in the newspaper obituaries. Ambling his way down the fire escape in order to get back to his apartment, Jason dug into his jacket pocket for his keys only to come to a complete stop, staring in gobsmacked horror at little Kyle, the son of the neighbors that lived across from Jason, digging into an entire deep dish beef lasagna tray all by himself. 

“Kid, what the fuck are you doing?” Jason choked out, hand still stuck in his inner pocket for his keys. 

“Oh Peter! You’re back!” Kyle beamed up at him, calling him by the alias he had tied to the apartment lease. After babysitting the kid for a few odd nights or so due to his parents’ horrible working hours and teaching him how to kick would-be kidnappers in the balls, Kyle had taken a shine to him. “I haven’t seen you in forever!” Tomato sauce dripped onto his sleeve.

“Where’d you get that much lasagna?” Jason asked, ignoring his strong urge to start cleaning up the giant mess of pasta and beef that Kyle had slowly been forming on the steps of the fire escape. 

“You shoulda seen ‘im!” the kid exclaimed, waving his arms wide along with the fork in his hands, splattering sauce onto the nearby window of Mr. Tripp, an assassin that favored garden tools. Jason would have to clean that up later or else Kyle’s parents, Robert and Gracie Millard, would find a garden shovel stabbed into their front door as a warning. Again .

Kyle continued to look at him excitedly. “This weird guy from Metropolis moved in a few weeks back and he just dropped it off in front of our apartment! Called it a new neighbor gift or something. He’s crazy. Anyways, mom and dad aren’t home so I was just gonna eat some of it for lunch and save the rest of it for dinner when they come home! They’re gonna be so surprised!”

Jason looked down at the lasagna that had long lost its lasagna shape. It now looked like a sad deconstructed pasta. “Alright kid, let’s get you cleaned up. You’re gonna end up dropping that off these stairs and killing someone down below.” Kyle only laughed.

Twenty minutes later, Jason had Kyle all cleaned up with the destroyed lasagna placed carefully into Jason’s very empty fridge. While he helped Kyle wash the grease and olive oil out of his hands, face, and this one spot on the boy’s left ankle (which Jason doesn’t even wanna know how sauce ended up there), Kyle had very graciously caught Jason up on all of the drama that had occurred while he was away. Ms. Reynolds down the hall had won the lottery and was in the middle of moving out to Little Odessa, the Boesch Family got a new dog that knew how to open doors, and Kyle’s dad Robert Millard recently got promoted at Blackgate Prison where he worked as a custodian. Jason made sure to ooh and aah in all the right places which kept Kyle entertained enough to let Jason manhandle him with hand soap and warm water. He pays the same amount of attention to the story of Kyle making an A+ on his math homework to the account of new Metropolis neighbor Conner Kent (the same guy who made the deep dish lasagna) recently coming into a large amount of money due to some job that he accepted and while Kyle’s dad is wary about the whole thing like any proper Gothamite, Kyle thinks that it’s neat that Conner will bake food for the floor sometimes, even if Robert spends thirty minutes scrutinizing it for drugs or other suspicious add-ons. 

Leaving a voicemail for Gracie Millard, Kyle’s mom who worked at a grocery store a few blocks down, Jason lets Kyle ramble about his day as he starts to meticulously clean his guns.

He was halfway done cleaning the barrel of his fourth favorite gun, carefully moving the cleaning rod through the muzzle guard, when he heard the knock on his apartment door. Eyes narrowing, Jason yanks a gun from his right thigh holster and clicks off the safety the same time he opens the door a crack in order to glare at the doe-eyed young man standing in front of his door with a sheepish expression and the stench of Gotham smog coming off his clothes in waves.

The chain holding Jason’s door made a funny little line between the man’s collarbones and neck as he laughed a little before placing a hand on the back of his neck. “Uh hi. We haven’t met yet but I’m your neighbor, Conner?”

Something in Jason’s brain clicks. “Oh, deep dish lasagna boy,” he unhelpfully comments. “Kyle told me about you.”

Mystery Metropolis neighbor Conner goes red at the name but continues to flash a smile that only a non-native Gotham resident can have (only if you ignore that weird smile that Steph gets on her face every time she’s in close proximity with a waffle). “Ahahaha yeah that’s me. Actually, I’m looking for Kyle. Gracie asked me to babysit him while she was at work.”

Jason’s surprised and suspicious all at the same time. The Millards were good parents and like any good parent would, they were fiercely protective about who got to babysit their kid. It had taken roughly four months for the Millards to even let Jason give food to Kyle without it getting checked and Jason had to submit his lack of a criminal history (excluding his nighttime extracurriculars) and listen to a three hour long lecture on gun safety by Robert before he even got to babysit Kyle and this all started because Jason volunteered to watch over a kid that wasn’t even his out of the goodness of his heart. For Metropolis Boy to get into Gracie Millard’s good graces in less than three weeks was a world record, even if Robert was still checking Conner’s gifts of food to the family. 

“I don’t wanna sound skeptical, but I’m just gonna call Gracie to double check, alright?” Jason said, before opening the lock on the door and letting Conner in. As Jason digs out his phone, Conner awkwardly ambles in and stands at the door all nervous like, at least until Kyle pops his head above the couch just to scream about Conner’s amazing lasagna and how it was crazy that Conner bought beef for it which was understandable. The beef prices in Gotham were criminal right now after Two Face blew up a meat packing factory and cut down supply by half. Who knew Happy Calf Hillgarden was a front for a stingy mob boss who cheated Gotham Rogues out of their hard earned cash?

Gracie picks up on the second ring, the sounds of crowds and high air conditioning muffling her hello. Someone in the background yells about trying to return a half-eaten bag of grapes.

“Hey Gracie,” Jason starts off with. “I just came back from my trip and saw your kid eating beef lasagna from our new neighbor Conner. Conner’s claiming that you let him babysit him for tonight. Just wanted to double check that before I accidentally send your son off with some psycho.”

Conner freezes at Jason’s words right as Kyle proceeds to jump off of the couch in order to grasp onto Conner like a flying Koala, hands outstretched like a flightless bird who wanted to defy the crushing weight of gravity. Conner barely catches the kid in time.

Gracie sighs from the other side of the phone. “Look, I know it sounds weird, but I wasn’t about to let Old Granny Dee look after my kid. The last time she did, Kyle kept asking to look at the obituaries in the newspaper for weeks and the Boesch’s got this dog that can open doors which led to Kyle stumbling upon their eldest daughter doing it with her boyfriend. And don’t get me started on that stupid David Tripp I swear when I get my hands on him for shattering our east facing window with a garden hose, I’m gonna cut off his-”

“Alright Gracie, I got you,” Jason groans. “This apartment is a shitshow and after school care costs an arm and a leg. Need me to look after Kyle instead then?”

A bit of back and forth eventually leads to Gracie agreeing to letting Kyle stay at Jason’s apartment and Conner’s insistence at watching over a kid that he was entrusted with (especially one staying in an apartment with a half broken down gun spread across the table) led to Jason cooking chicken soup while Conner helped Kyle do his science homework. It was going to be a long three hours.

Throwing in Alfred’s signature spice combination, Jason stirs it a bit as silence settles into the kitchen, Kyle too occupied with writing a short answer response to why plants were green and Conner likely too afraid to make conversation with a man who looked like a thug and who owned at least five guns from what was laying out around his apartment. 

Just as Jason tosses in some bone broth, homemade or else Alfred might actually break the Bats’ no-kill rule, Conner surprises him by asking “So Peter, what do you do for work?”

Small talk. Great. Jason thinks back to his cover as Peter and which story he had tied to it. It had been six months after all. “I do some odd jobs around Gotham but my last job had me tied up in some work down in South Gotham. Something about delivering packages and stuff. Took me a while to wrap that up.” From the reflection of the metal stove vent, Jason can see Conner’s eyebrows knit in worry. Crap, too vague then. He probably sounds like a human trafficker or something. “What about you? Kyle told me you came into some money from a job. Sounds pretty nice to me.” Divert, divert, divert . 

Conner nods slowly. “I used to work with the Daily Planet but I moved here to get into some investigative journalism. I recently got hired by some big shot millionaire for an article he wanted done on him.” A response that was also vague. Jason could work with that. 

“And how’s that going for you?” Jason lets the pot boil up a bit before turning the heat off.

“Strange,” Conner admits. “I got paired with some information broker or something and everything just seems really confusing. I’m not even sure where to start.”

Jason decides to pass down some age-old knowledge in the spur of the moment. Waving the ladle like a teacher’s pointing stick, Jason nods. “Well I would say that your best bet is to get your facts straight. Who said what, who was where, that stuff. But this is Gotham so try not to step on anyone’s toes while you do that, ok? And don’t trust the police. I know Commissioner Gordon’s done some good work in cleaning up the precincts and there are some good men and women in the force but you really shouldn’t go to the police for answers unless you want to confirm something. Best to ask the locals first or figure out who’s pulling the money in the area.”

Jason shoves a bowl of hot soup over to Conner and Metropolis Boy only looks down at the chicken in contemplation as if it would have all of the answers he needed.

“I think… I think I know what I need to do.”

Chapter Text

Conner finally comes to terms with the fact that he might be just a bit too rusty for the dance floor. The mob of people in the middle of the Iceberg Lounge had successfully pushed him out for the third time (but he swore he was better at this back in Hawaii) and Conner relegates himself to the sidelines, taking a seat at the bar next to a couple passionately making out and a man who was in the middle of his ninth shot. As hard as he tries, he can’t really imagine serious looking Tim Drake from tabloid covers and the Tamara Fox who greeted him at his apartment breaking it down in the middle of a club drunk and/or high. The Wayne Enterprises CEO and his secretary look much too high strung for those kinds of shenanigans but then again, Conner has seen Lois do a shoey during his college graduation party just because Cassie dared that she couldn’t.

From the few nights that he’s been going to the club, Conner was able to make a decent list of regulars and bar shift schedules which he could use to recreate the night when Tim Drake and Dominic Auteberry were last seen together along with a list of who would most likely be there as well. All of that hard work has led him to this conclusive moment where bartender Brent has finally started his shift, switching with Megan who spent her shift studying behind the bar.

Brent pulled up to the counter, shoving a towel into his pocket as he nodded towards Conner. “What can I get you?”

“A club soda,” Conner replies and Brent laughs. 

“Just a club soda? Sure man but that’s kind of a waste for a $100 entry fee.”

“I’m just winding down. Actually,” Conner takes time to look around him warily. “You heard about that Auteberry murder case right? My drunk ass could definitely get killed if I walked home before I sobered up.”

Brent nods in understanding as he pulled out a bottle of carbonated water before pouring it into a beautifully tinted blue glass though Conner couldn’t tell if it was natural or just because of the flashing club lights above them. “Oh yeah, believe me, I know about it. Megan makes me walk her home every night because of it but like, it’s not like the guy got killed here . And he was kidnapped, wasn’t he?”

Conner stops. “Huh?”

Brent looks up from where he pushed the glass towards Conner. “Wait, you don’t know? Dominic Auteberry left the club at 2AM in a taxi. A taxi! Cabs haven’t run through the Tricorner since the 90’s. Something about the Accio Family having ancient beef with Penguin or something and the Accio Family basically controls the Gotham taxi system, but you didn’t hear that from me. Penguin’s a great boss. Pays health insurance and everything and we’re paid 40% more than your average bartender from the Diamond District-”

Brent looks like he’s about to ramble more about how great it was to work underneath an actual Gotham Rogue which causes Conner to hold his hands up to stop him. “Wait no go back. The taxi thing. Elaborate.”

Bartender Brent gives him a look. “You’re not from Gotham, are you?”

“Metropolis, if you can believe it,” Conner admits sheepishly.

He huffs out in exasperation. “That explains it. Anyways, anyone with a brain knows that seeing a taxi in the Tricorner is super suspicious and it probably wasn’t an actual taxi. But drunk idiot Dominic stumbles into one and then ends up dead at the docks the next morning. That Wayne guy is supposed to be smart right? If he wanted him dead, he would have used a normal car that could be mistaken as an Uber or even a friend of Dominic’s. That’s way easier than getting a taxi into the Tricorner.”

That certainly doesn’t seem like a mistake that someone who went toe to toe with Lex Luthor in the stock markets and from the tone of Brent, no self-respecting Gothamite would be dumb enough to do that either. Conner grimaced. That meant that whoever killed Dominic Auteberry probably wasn’t a Gotham native.

That just made the pool of suspects a whole lot bigger. 

Tim swings his legs from where he was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, just a few feet away from Barbara and Steph who were around the computers in the clocktower, pouring through the CCTVs of the Tricorner on the night when Dominic Auteberry went and got himself murdered. 

“There’s nothing there,” Tim said for the fourth time, munching on one of Alfred’s breakfast rolls that he had snagged from the dining table before he left the manor that morning. “I checked it like twenty times.” Tim took another bite, intent on finally getting into the custard filling in the middle.

“Oh hush you,” Barbara retorts, rewinding Camera #84 for the third time that night. “Dominic can’t just disappear for an entire night only to end up dead at the dockyard. Nobody’s that good.”

Steph leans closer to squint at the blurry black and white images on the main monitor. “Is that- nah it’s just a cat. Nevermind.”

“I’m telling you guys,” Tim chimes in. “I’ve got a plan in motion already. Everything will work out by the end of the month.”

Steph laughs. “Tim, you told me your plan and I think it’s so convoluted that not even Bruce could deduce his way out of it. I love you, but sometimes you’re too smart for your own good. We still use simple methods like this because they work. I for one have never conned some poor Metropolis reporter into solving my own murder case.”

“Subterfuge is always the answer, Steph. Besides, it’s impossible to get footage from Penguin’s territory and the CCTVs at the docks have always been spotty,” Tim pointed out. There was a reason why they still did stakeouts at the docks. Decades of criminals destroying cameras so that they could continue illicit deals in the dark in sketchy ports has led to a general disinterest by shipyard managers in repairing broken cameras for the twentieth time in a row.

“Let Tim have his fun,” Barbara said as she switched over to the next nearest camera, this time it was three streets away from the Iceberg Lounge with the feed pulled directly from some private homeowner who forgot to encrypt their security feed. “Besides, I already found something.”

Tim arches an eyebrow as he stops mid-chew while Steph pumps her fist into the air in victory. He pointedly ignores her. “What’d you find?”

“A taxi in the Tricorner.”

Blown up on the screen is a heavily pixelated image with horrible coloring due to the lack of lighting but the bright yellow of a Gotham cab is unmistakable along with the numbers plastered around the side: 445. 

“Is the Accio Family trying to move onto Penguin’s turf?”

“Doubt it. They’re still fighting with the Ripley Family over territory in Little Italy,” Steph said. With how often her patrol routes took her through the area, Tim had full confidence that Steph was fully caught up in every mafia rumor to date. “Actually… Taxi 445 sounds familiar. Who’s it owned by?”

“It was owned by Arthur Ilbert.” Barbara pulls up a mugshot and Ilbert’s criminal history which included petty theft and domestic violence along with his death certificate and the autopsy done on his corpse. It even had the Y stitches and everything. “I would give you his address but it’s redundant now.”

Steph curses. “Right. Ilbert was the Accio Family’s right-hand man. He was supposedly killed by the sister of the Ripley Family’s boss due to an affair gone wrong but his cab’s been missing for weeks and that didn’t make sense. Why would Sabina Ripley steal the cab of the man she murdered? She doesn’t even have a driver’s license!”

“So either someone stole the car of a dead guy or they killed Ilbert and took his car and then framed Ilbert’s mistress for the crime.” Tim said. He’d hate that. Murder was one thing, but theft of someone’s precious vehicle was a special kind of crime. If someone stole the Redbird, Tim would probably break Batman’s no-kill rule with some light attempted murder. Besides, that rule has probably been broken for less.

Barbara pulls up the police report on Ilbert, thankfully from the much more reputable 41st Precinct of Little Italy. “Ilbert had his heart pulled out of him when he was alive and likely died from shock. The autopsy also reported a few missing organs as well. The precinct chalked it up to gang violence since Ilbert was a member of the Accio Family but pulling a heart out of someone is pretty dramatic, even by mafia standards.”

“Maybe we should start looking for crimes or murders tied to taxis,” Steph pointed out. “If it’s a stolen vehicle then they might use it again if they haven’t already dumped it. Also can’t see how ripping a heart out of someone can be a one-time thing.”

“Or it could be organ trafficking. A taxi would be perfect for that,” Barbara added. “I’ll ask Cass to look into it while I try to track where this taxi went. I’ll alert Jason as well. He’s going to be pissed if organ traffickers are back in Gotham city limits. Sorry Tim, but I’ll have to push your case onto the backburner for now.”

“Don’t worry,” Tim said as he showed them Conner’s most recent text to him. Got information that Dominic got into a cab right after he left the Lounge. “How much are we betting that Dominic’s body is missing a few organs?”

“I wouldn’t put it past the 33rd Precinct to hide something like that. There tends to be less paperwork when your victim has all of their organs, just saying.”

Tim takes the time to send texts to two different people and gets ready to answer a subsequent call from Ella who only replied to his text with the middle finger emoji. “A killer who rips the heart out of their victims? Hardly the weirdest thing I’ve seen in Gotham.”

just sent the files you requested. lmk when you look through them, something weird about ME’s report

Conner barely glances at Alvin’s text as he shoves his phone back into his pants’ pocket, looking back up towards his laptop where he was seated in a corner of a fancy coffee shop on the more expensive side of the already expensive Diamond District. 

Having bought the least expensive item on the menu, a single cup of coffee clocking in at $35 with a name that he couldn’t pronounce so he just pointed at it at the cashier, Conner tries to imbue fancy socialite with a six figure monthly allowance as he continues to sneak glances towards Ella Kimberly, Dominic Auteberry’s ex-girlfriend, who was sitting two tables across from him.

Ella Kimberly was the daughter of WE board member Mervin Kimberly who’s been on the board long before Tim Drake took over his adoptive father’s position. As expected of the children of influential and wealthy individuals, there is a significant lack of information on Ella that has been publicly confirmed. Sure, news outlets will claim that Tim and Ella were in a passionate love affair which was what caused Tim to kill Dominic Auteberry or spin stories about how Ella was a master manipulator who got Tim to kill her cheating ex-boyfriend, but there was nothing concrete about Ella’s character or background. Her mother vacationed a lot in Italy if the Instagram photos could be believed and a mutual between Tim and Ella with a public account posted something about congratulating the latter for getting into UC Berkeley (probably through bribery if Conner is to throw out a guess). Other than that, Conner knows absolutely nothing about Tim Drake’s friend who got him involved in a murder case.

Ella leaves her Hermes Birkin purse on an extra chair at her table as she delicately cuts into her breakfast bagel, a set of plates and utensils across from her which clearly indicated that she was planning on meeting someone.

Ten minutes later, Laurene Auteberry strolls in and takes a seat, her expression a clear difference from the warm and genial smile she gave in the photo that Conner previously saw her in as she stood besides Bruce Wayne. Conner can see that behind the makeup and the perfectly tied back hair, Laurene looks as if she has aged ten years. 

“Ella,” Laurene said with little fanfare. “Let's make this quick. A meeting in public, are you insane?”

Ella continues to cut into her bagel without even looking up much. She even takes the time to take a sip from her coffee cup, leaving a bright smear of lipstick on the ceramic. A classic waiting tactic, Conner notes. She's trying to create an uncomfortable atmosphere at the table to unnerve Laurene. 

“I think it would be a lot more condemning if we met in private and someone found out. They'd think that we're colluding in the fallout of Dominic’s death,” Ella finally said, dabbing a corner of her napkin against her mouth.

Laurene’s face tightens. “Your breakup couldn't have been more public. I know that Dominic wronged you but if you had a hand in his dea-”

“I didn't and neither did Tim. You know that,” Ella said, cutting Laurene off. “We'd have to be stupid to do something like that after being seen in public with him hours before. And do you really think that we’re capable of killing a man?” Her smile quirks up a bit, amusement bleeding through her words. The idea of a spoiled naive trust fund kid that Conner has slowly been forming about Ella Kimberly starts to fall apart. Ella doesn't look like she just publicly broke up with her boyfriend by kicking him in the balls. She looks like she would've done something much worse.

Laurene almost snarls but holds herself back, fingers clutching tight around her purse. “I've seen Timothy in the boardroom. Murder would have been a mercy compared to what he's done in there. But no, I don't think that he’s capable of killing someone, but only because of the mess it would leave behind. Is that all you had to say? Trying to prove that you and Timothy aren’t killers to me? Ella, my son is dead.”

Ella pulls out her wallet, sliding out a black credit card for the check as she waves down the waiter. “You’re right. If it was just that then this could have been settled over the phone but I felt like my request should be done in person. Out of respect, you understand.”

The older woman looks at Ella as if the girl in front of her had just insulted her entire family. “A request for the mother of the man you broke up with. I can’t imagine it’s anything good.”

Ella interlaces her fingers together, pale nude nail polish glinting off her fingers as she smiles. This was the expression Conner expected from the daughter of a man raking in over 160k a year. I’ve been told that you’re on your way to collect Dominic’s body from the morgue. It'd be horrible for his body to get exhumed due to a reinvestigation. If you've ever loved your stepson, please hold off on his funeral. I'm only asking for a couple more days.”

Something akin to recognition appears in Laurene’s eyes. “He put you up to this, didn't he? Always has to be in control of the situation. Just like his mother.”

“That'd be a compliment. Janet Drake was a force to be reckoned with. I think my father might have even feared her when she was still alive.”

Laurene waves off the waiter who passes by briefly to ask if they wanted their water refilled. “Bruce sure knows how to pick them. Tell Timothy that if he verifies my contract for a partnership between Wayne Enterprises and Auteberry Foundation, I'll give him four days. Any longer and the news outlets will start calling me a heartless stepmother who won't even let her stepson get properly buried.”

Ella seems almost empathetic when she reached across the table to grasp Laurene’s hand in her own. “Dominic did love you in his own way.”

“Lying is a sin,” dismissed Laurene. “And I'm no fool. Dominic would have loved the pool cleaner more than he would ever love me. I'm just the woman that stole his father from him and stole half of his inheritance. I know what I am.”

Conner leans back in his seat as the two women get up to leave, parting ways at the cafe entrance. Laurene walked straight out while Ella stopped to scan the room one last time before following suit though he almost imagines that she makes eye contact with him for a brief moment.

Four days until the 33rd Precinct gave up Dominic’s body to the funeral house. Conner texts Alvin meet me at 4, we need to wrap this investigation up fast .

Here's the thing. Tim knows how a journalist works. Vicki Vale has spent years running circles around the Wayne Family, a shark sniffing for a drop of blood to run a story off of, and Tim's had his fair share of interaction with the Gotham Gazette both as Tim Drake and as Red Robin.

Journalists search for clues everywhere and they have a knack for uncovering the most buried of secrets. They take an inch and go a mile and then some. So when put in that perspective, involving Conner Kent is a risk and a liability.

But Tim has a plan that rests loosely off of the idea that if Tim can lay a vague trail, Conner will be able pick up the crumbs to the grand prize, but he can't guarantee that Conner won't veer off course if his investigative journalist instincts take him to somewhere else.

Take for instance, Conner going off to tail Ella, Laurene Auteberry, and even Tim himself instead of looking into the very suspicious Medical Examiner of the 33rd precinct who had definitely been bribed into falsifying reports (something that Barbara had helped flag for him). The moment Tam leans close to whisper that Conner was seen in the WE lobby during a board meeting, Tim knows that his hired reporter is following the wrong lead. That and the information that Laurene was planning to bury Dominic Auteberry soon for an open-casket funeral had Tim arrange a few things with Ella. Despite her quick-to-anger habit of smacking wayward cheating ex-boyfriends with extreme prejudice, Ella was raised in the WE boardroom set to follow in the steps of her father. She can be just as manipulative as any other executive that graced the halls of Wayne Enterprises and during a private meeting in a side room of WE, Ella just nods along with Tim’s plan with a look that says I'll play your game .

That following day, Ella stages a fight with the police of the 33rd Precinct with the knowledge that Conner Kent was watching everything that she was doing that day. She contacts Laurene Auteberry to keep Dominic’s body in the morgue and clears her, Tim and Laurene’s names in front of Conner Kent without the reporter being any wiser.

And just like that Conner finally turns his attention back to the sketchy ME report and the newfound deadline of four days.

Tim glances at Conner’s most recent text and runs a hand through his hair as he gets ready to settle back into the role of Alvin Draper. 

Now they can move onto the next step.