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The first sign that the evening wasn’t going to go well was the disappointed tut Alfred made, when he realized that Tim’s tux had to be taken in a bit, at the waist, to have that clean fit that proper tailoring gave to a suit.
No, wait.
The first sign was Conner’s wide eyes when Steph slipped Tim’s name out. Or, no, the first sign was Bart showing up on his doorstep at around 2:30pm, jabbering about how Jaime wasn’t available and Tim was close to his age.
No, let’s go further back. It was having attention drawn to him at training, while he was wearing Conner’s shirt and those ridiculous sunglasses.
Or! Or, it was the night before, when Dick purposely left Tim at the Mountain, sleeping in Conner’s room.
Maybe it was back a bit further, even, when Conner had noticed that Tim was having capital-I-Issues because of the heat. If Conner hadn’t noticed that, none of the other things would have happened, except maybe Bart showing up on his doorstep. Maybe. But, hey, Bart hadn’t shown interest in Tim until Conner had Tim sat down with a bagel, the morning after.
Not that kind of morning after.
Really not that kind of “morning after.”
“Master Timothy,” Alfred said, as the tuxedo went back into its big plastic sip-up hanger sock. Alfred didn’t have a particular look about him, just the stern professionalism that he used to cover up how parental he got about his brood of bats. Because, if the brood belonged to anyone, they belonged to Alfred. “Perhaps we should see about instigating a schedule wherein you actually find the time to consume three meals a day, rather than the occasional meal, ‘if work allows.’”
“It’s not that bad,” Tim muttered.
Alfred hummed, unconvinced and too outwardly polite to contradict Tim.
“Really!” Tim straightened his spine. “I ate lunch at the mall, and Conner made me eat breakfast, at the Mountain! I’m on a roll, today, when it comes to regular eating.”
“Yes, but one day is hardly representative of healthy eating habits, Master Timothy,” Alfred said. He picked up the suit-hanger thing, that Tim probably should have known the name of, and – perfect poise, perfect posture, perfect prim properness – walked out of the room, presumably to set the suit aside with Bruce’s, which had a tear at the shoulder seam.
Tim decided not to argue. Alfred had a tendency of being right. Even when he was wrong.
Yeah, that kind of “tendency of being right.”
Alfred reentered, hands clasped politely at the small of his back. “Will you be needing assistance in picking out attire appropriate for the evening’s goings-on?” he asked.
“I think I can handle myself,” Tim looked around his room – a lot barer than the one in his father’s house – and then turned back to Alfred, in time to catch the tail-end of an eye-roll that Alfred would never cop to.
“I’m so sure,” he said. But he did leave.
As it was, Tim hadn’t been able to get out of the evening’s reservation. Tim also couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what the reservation was for, exactly. If he wasn’t already running low on time (even for a fashionably late arrival), he would have gotten on his laptop to poke through his “mission” files. Which were actually files on anything, everything, anyone, and everyone. There was entire systems of sub-folders devoted to parties, usual invites, the preferred charities of usual invites, dirt on the usual invites and the charities, and pre-scripted conversations that were okay to have, even in mixed company or around reporters.
Tim liked to be prepared, okay? He was also an ace at procrastination, and spent an entire weekend of procrastination writing out the labyrinthian system of notes, documents, folders, and PowerPoint presentations relating to Wayne Galas, Police Balls, and Charity Balls that weren’t held by the Waynes.
Or, rather, the Wayne.
And/or Alfred, who handled Bruce’s appointments and reservations, particularly on crime-heavy weeks.
Tim shook himself out of his thoughts, which were about as helpful and on-topic as a Nativity set in a Hanukkah display, and walked over to his closet. Polos were out. Tim wasn’t sure why he owned them, anyway. He never wore them off a golf course, and he never went to a golf course unless forced.
The dress shirts were primarily white, and he couldn’t help but think of Steph as he looked at them. Rather, he couldn’t help but think of how “black is lit, white sucks ass,” as Steph had so eloquently put it, in the mall. Tim scowled and picked out a white dress shirt, anyway, laying it on his bed before returning to his closet for a blazer.
Well. No.
Returning to his closet to agonize between one of his more comfortable-fit suits, and a plain blazer. He might have been able to get away with black jeans, particularly if Bruce was in a big hurry to get out the door. But it was a gamble. He might just get sent back to his room to change into dress pants…
Tim huffed a breath out his nose, plucked a suit from the depths of his closet, and tossed the suit at his bed. Dress shoes were up on the shelf, and Tim had trouble reaching that high, even on his toes. Dick never had trouble reaching the first shelf in his closet, which was at the same exact height as the shelf in Tim’s closet. And which was unfair.
Tim jumped, snapping up the black dress shoes with a grunt. He scowled at them, when he was back on solid ground, though. The toe pointed a bit too much, and the shoes looked too flat and squat. Tim tossed them aside and hopped a few times, until he managed to catch the next pair of black dress shoes by the insides of the heels. These were much more flattering, and rewarded for their aesthetically pleasing natures with a toss at the bed.
Tim had about ten minutes before Alfred would be back to gather him (and Bruce) to head out the door, in order to make their reservation. Tim, therefore, threw on his suit, as it was, and prayed Alfred wouldn’t turn his nose up at the dress shirt’s sparse wrinkles and the suit’s lack of dusting. And, god, there was actual dust on the shoulders. That was for a lint roller to take care of, though.
Tim left the jacket of the suit on the bed as he stomped his feet into his half-tied dress shoes and went into the bathroom. Someone had to tame his ridiculously fluffy hair, and he wasn’t about to let Alfred at it. Tim combed his hair back with some medium-hold pomade, giving it a semblance of charming dishevelment that didn’t scream “I just rolled out of bed and threw on a suit before coming.” He wasn’t entirely satisfied with it, but Alfred was knocking at the door and Tim couldn’t very well sit fiddling with his hair, making himself and Bruce all the later.
“Master Timothy,” Alfred said, to announce himself.
“Coming,” Timothy trudged back out the bathroom, picked up the suit jacket off the bed, and opened his dresser in passing, to pull a rolled-up tie from the top drawer. Red? Sure. Why not.
“Ah, good. I was afraid I’d have to take a comb to that, myself,” Alfred said wryly. He indicated Tim’s hair with a tilt of his chin. Tim rolled his eyes, slipped his phone into his suit jacket’s inner pocket, and followed Alfred out.
--
“Pocket squares are in the console, if either of you will require them,” Alfred said, once they were piled into the Rolls Royce. Bruce grunted and leaned forward to fetch the pocket squares mentioned. “Master Timothy?”
“No thanks,” Tim murmured. He had most of his focus on the tie caught between his fingers (over-around-through-under-pull, ta-da, Double Windsor… wait, shit, the knot is lopsided, untie, rinse, repeat), but one didn’t ignore Alfred.
“Need help?” Bruce asked.
Tim shook his head and tried again. Single Windsor would probably be easier, but might not look as nice. Unless the Double Windsor kept coming out lopsided, in which case the Single would be better. Tim poked his tongue out a bit as he tightened the knot for the third time, carefully keeping the triangle-shaped knot shaped like a proper triangle. Yes, good. Perfect.
“No pocket square for me, thank you,” he repeated, sitting back with a sigh.
“Hm,” Alfred responded. It could have been a simple acknowledgement, or it could have been judgement. Tim responded to the response with a shrug, either way. He’d wear a pocket square with the stupid tux, if he had to, but he wasn’t doing anything more complicated than a stupid tie, with his current getup. No thank you.
The trip to the restaurant was quiet, for the most part, outside of Bruce’s occasional comments to Alfred or Tim. Dick might have tried to get a conversation going, and keep it going, but Tim and Bruce were content to let silent fall over them as they checked their phones and watched the city pass.
Gotham never looked peaceful or still. That’s what Tim saw out his window, a city in constant motion. People always moving and doing things.
Was that part of Gotham’s charm? Or was it one of Gotham’s pitfalls?
The restaurant was a ritzy, upper-northside place with big windows, bigger lights, a valet (that they wouldn’t need), and enough well-to-do customers to attract any number of risk-taking baddies to the scene. It was the kind of place Bruce went with his “dates,” in order to be seen with them. It was also the kind of place Bruce occasionally had business-ly meetings at, with press or Wayne Corp. board members or up-and-coming politicians.
It wasn’t really a place Bruce took one of his charity cases to. Not that Bruce’s kids were “charity cases” to Bruce, per se. It was more that… the public saw charity cases when they saw the big blue eyes following in Bruce’s shadow. Maybe.
“So…” Tim said, as Alfred waited in a line of cars to get to the restaurant’s heavily lit, gaudy entrance. “What’s the meeting about?”
Bruce glanced at him, eyebrow raised and the corner of his lip turned down in thought. Tim was the personification of preparedness in a bottle. It was a rare and unusual sight when Tim didn’t know what was going on.
It was infinitely more likely that Tim knew every angle of what was going on, even when he wasn’t supposed to.
Tim blinked a few times, almost batting his eyelashes in what might have been mock innocence. “It’s been a long week,” he said. He shrugged. He offered a smile that looked abashed. “I can’t for the life of me remember what the reservation was for or about.” He looked abashed, but he was just trying to circumnavigate getting in trouble by giving Bruce less of a reason to chastise him.
“Press meeting,” Bruce said.
The car pulled up to the front and Alfred touched the tip of his cap in greeting to the valet. The valet went to the door to let Bruce out. He seemed surprised when Tim slid out, then almost relieved when Bruce slid out the same door, tip already in hand and smile already in place. “Thank you, son,” Bruce said, patting the young valet’s shoulder twice.
Tim managed to only scoff on the inside.
Press meeting. Okay, sure, Bruce sometimes did meetings like that at places like this, but… minor alarm bells were already ringing. They’d been ringing since Tim had seen Dick at the mall, barely an hour before.
“Press meeting,” Tim echoed. “I have a horrible feeling that I should know what this is about.” He spoke quietly, and through the teeth of a smile he offered to anyone nearby. There were a lot of “anyones” nearby.
“The gala,” Bruce said. He waved to some girl, then put a hand on Tim’s shoulder, just long enough for a trigger-happy photographer to get what was probably a very photogenic, high-quality shot of Bruce Wayne and his latest charity case, who was already high-class enough to need nothing from anyone, but the press could spin stories anyway they liked, to keep their readership. So, even Timothy Drake, heir of Drake Industries, could be their charity case.
“Because there won’t be press at the gala?” Tim asked, sarcastic.
They were inside now, but Tim’s professional smile wasn’t allowed to waver, beyond hiding his teeth in a grin, instead of torturing his cheeks by keeping his smile overly wide and friendly. Bruce’s smile didn’t change much at all.
“It’s a favour, for an old friend,” Bruce said. He turned to the host and summoned their attention with a winning grin and a wave of his hand.
“Ah, Mr. Wayne! We’ve been expecting you,” the host said. He left his spot, which was taken over almost immediately, and beckoned Bruce and Tim to follow him.
Tim decided against asking “who,” partly because of his dread, and partly because he couldn’t really figure out a “friend” that Bruce had who was also related to the press. Was it even a friend-friend? Or someone that was more buddy-buddy with Bruce’s outward, personable, public persona? Did Bruce actually have the capability of making friends?
The host lead them through the busiest parts of the restaurant, to an elevator, up a floor, then through another sea of people and tables until they reached a quieter part of the restaurant. “A waiter will be along shortly to see to your drinks,” the host said, pushing open a set of balcony doors and stepping aside. “We are, of course, honoured to serve you in any way during your evening with us, Mr. Wayne.”
“Thank you,” Bruce said. He tipped the host, too. And generously. Tim knew Bruce liked his public persona to be received as gracious and personable, but Tim thought it came across as more wasteful, and almost as if Bruce didn’t know the worth of the cash he passed around.
It wasn’t a very flattering opinion of the billionaire.
Bruce walked away from the door with purpose, and Tim waited a moment before following. There were a few tables out on the balcony, and fewer still were actually filled. Tim didn’t think it was wise of the host to leave his customers to find their table on their own, but Bruce went immediately to the farthest table.
Two men were seated at the table, already, when Bruce pulled out his chair. Tim started over as Bruce leaned over to shake hands first with the taller man, then with the shorter one. His smile was a bit more personable, oddly enough, and Tim’s spine prickled with unwelcome anticipation.
Almost… fear?
Bruce took the seat opposite the taller man and struck up a conversation Tim preemptively tuned out. Tim walked around the shorter man to the other open seat. His step faltered briefly, though, along with his smile, when he glanced at the smaller man. Younger, rather.
He made it to his seat, and immediately went for the glass of water already in front of his plate.
The young man across from Tim was probably under six feet tall, built well, had dark hair and bright eyes, and wore a black dress shirt that was just a bit snug across the shoulders. Black was lit, as Steph had said. And black was lit. The young man gave Tim a distracted smile and reached across the table to shake his hand. Robotically, Tim complied, his other hand still reaching for the water.
“Hello, I’m Conner,” he said. His eyes flicked over to Bruce, and then to the other man (Clark) for a moment. “Conner Kent. It’s nice to meet you.”
Tim sighed into his glass, withdrawing his hand. Of course. Of-fucking-course. The universe wanted to play hardball? Test Tim’s limits? Fine. Whatever. No big deal. He survived worse. He could deal.
Conner turned back to blink at him a few times.
“Forgive me, how rude of me. It’s a pleasure. I’m Timothy Drake. Tim,” He shook Conner’s hand again, and, first, Conner’s eyes widened a controlled fraction, then Conner’s eyes flicked back over to Bruce Wayne in a way that mirrored the growing sense of Doom that Tim had been feeling for most of the day. It was about time someone else dealt with a bit of the train wreck that the last twenty-four hours had turned Tim’s life into.
Bruce glanced at Tim with a frown that almost touched on concern, then glanced back at Clark. Their conversation faltered and drifted off.
“So,” Tim cleared his throat and turned to Clark, “Mr. Kent, you’re…” he motioned between Clark and Conner, in a way that made Clark a little nervous. Tim didn’t finish his question, though, just raised his eyebrow a little.
“Uh,” Clark glanced at Bruce, who was giving Tim a stern glance.
“I mean, we’re acquainted, you and I, but I don’t think you’ve ever introduced me to Conner, before. He has your name, no? And that Kent build.” The Kryptonian, superhuman hardiness and nigh-foreign beauty that you usually didn’t think of, in tandem with a musclebound crusader of truth and justice.
Conner snorted. Tim felt a kindred spirit, in that snort. And, perhaps, Conner remembered the earlier conversations of Clark’s aversion to the parental monikers. “He’s my dad,” Conner said, shifting in his seat and turning to look at Clark.
Now Clark looked a bit stricken. But, there it was, Conner had followed through. Conner had called Clark his dad, in a situation where Clark couldn’t just brush it off or run into traffic. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Tim covered a smile. Clark cleared his throat.
“Um, yes,” Clark said. “Conner is my… son.”
Tim doubted that the other Kent mini-me had nearly this much trouble getting Clark to admit parenthood. But then, Jonathan wasn’t exactly a clone co-parented by Lex Luthor. (And, on a very technical level, Tim wasn’t even supposed to know about Jonathan Kent.)
The promised waiter arrived to take their drink orders, about when it looked like Clark was going to break and make a run for it, in spite of the social dynamics keeping him politely in place.
Clark hesitantly returned to conversation with Bruce, after both of them had given their orders to the waiter (iced tea lemonade for the Kansas-raised reporter, the house’s choice of wine for the billionaire Gothamite) and said waiter turned her attention to Conner and Tim, who were having inner battles that probably couldn’t be seen by anyone around them. Except Bruce. Who was thankfully distracted.
“Is this place a Pepsi or Coke establishment…?” Conner floundered. Conner’s element was so far out of reach that he probably needed a ladder just to reach it again.
The waiter turned up her nose a bit at that, oozing elitism. “We are a privately-owned establishment with in-house craft sodas, made on the premises,” she said. Her tone was overtly condescending and she punctuated each of her words by stabbing her pen into her pad of paper.
Conner flinched a little, but kept his smile on.
“One of the craft colas for my friend,” Tim cut in, a bit icily. “If that’s okay with you, Conner?” he glanced at Conner, without losing much of his sharpness. Conner nodded, eyes a bit wide, and Tim turned back to the waiter. “And I suppose it won’t hurt to have the same. Two craft colas, with their superior, in-house recipes, and the necessity to push it in the face of customers, rather than simply answering perfectly valid questions.” He glanced at her name tag. “Anna,” he tacked on.
The waiter looked at Tim, almost frozen, then scratched the order onto her pad. She scurried off, making due haste in repentance of her earlier tone. Or in fear of Tim’s icy wrath. Or both.
“Wow,” Conner muttered.
“Northside staff think they’re above their own customers,” Tim scoffed. “Unreal.” That wasn’t quite up to par with Tim’s usual eloquence. “I apologize for her error in judgement. It seems to be an expectation, here, that everyone know the particulars of their drink menu, whether or not a drink menu is explicitly provided for consumer perusal. I doubt their colas taste much different than Pepsi or Coke, anyhow.”
“If there is, I doubt I’d be able to tell,” Conner said. He gave a wry smile. “Just a Kansas kid, really. I'm happy with store brand colas.”
Tim refrained from asking whether or not Supers had super-taste, along with the hearing and seeing and everything else, even though he was suddenly curious about just that. Instead, Tim laughed politely. Which didn’t seem to please Conner very much – he didn’t seem to like the fakeness of the laugh any more than he liked the faux smiles Tim kept employing – but which didn’t deter Conner from cracking another joke, in waiting for their drinks and perusing the… tiny menu. The drinks weren’t even on it, just a trio of appetizers, a few multi-course meals, and a handful of desserts, each claiming particular merits that Tim didn’t think any of them would live up to.
Lava cakes did not share the same primal energy as actual volcanoes, for one, and no amount of purple prose was going to change that.
Either way, bigger restaurant, smaller menu. Tim wasn’t much surprised. There were basically four options: vegetarian, steak, chicken, or fish. The names of each dish were obnoxiously and unnecessarily French, and the prices weren’t included on the menu, which meant that everything was overpriced and under-portioned.
“Any suggestions?” Conner asked.
Tim glanced up from the menu and back at Conner. He glanced briefly over at Bruce and Clark, then turned back to Conner with a shrug. “I usually play it safe and order fish,” he said, “Unless the fish sounds too… exotic or questionable. I’m sure the steak’s good.” Conner looked like a steak guy.
Tim was more of a… stick to a loosely kosher diet kind of guy. Loosely kosher because he was Jewish, but not exactly active or practicing or. Well. He didn’t make it to services on a weekly basis, anyway. And, dammit, he liked bacon, once in a while.
“Do you have any allergies?” Tim asked.
Conner raised his eyebrows. “No… you?”
“Milk,” Tim snorted. Bruce glanced over at the breach in gentlemanly etiquette, but didn’t call Tim on it. “I mean, I’m lactose intolerant. Not necessarily all-out allergic.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
Tim thought for a moment. “I have no idea, actually,” he said. “But, you know what? I’m allergic to kiwis.”
“New Zealanders or the bird?” Conner asked.
“Funny,” Tim rolled his eyes. “The fruit, thanks. Also peaches. I just try not to eat fuzzy fruits, at this point. Just in case. And mango, which is a more recent acquisition, as far as allergies go. I don’t even like mango, though, so that’s not a big loss. None of them are bad allergies, just annoying. Oh, and strawberries. Which just means I take my cheesecake with cherries instead.”
“Wow,” Conner said. He leaned forward, fascinated. “Do you carry an EpiPen? Or is it not that bad?” Clark tossed Conner a look and Conner sat back again. “Uh. Sorry, bad question?” he glanced at Clark for approval, which… he didn’t quite get. But he didn’t get another look, either.
“Oh, I don’t care,” Tim said firmly. He gave a tight smile, which he aimed at Clark with almost vicious intent, then turned a lighter smile back to Conner. It was as much to say don’t force him to stop asking questions, though Clark would be hard-pressed to think of a reason why this supposed stranger (who knew Clark equaled Superman, but who Conner shouldn’t know the inverse of) would be defensive over Conner. “I don’t think it’s necessary, but I adhere to ‘better safe than sorry,’ which is to say, yes, I do carry an EpiPen. Except tonight. Because I forgot.” He laughed.
Bruce probably had an EpiPen in his suit pocket, and two in the car. Alfred probably had one, directly on his person, too.
Tim’s reactions didn’t quite make it to full-on anaphylaxis, but “better safe than sorry” wasn’t just a Tim thing, it was a Bat thing.
And it harkened back to the “almost too late” with Dick’s depression, that no one talked about, but which coloured the preparedness that followed the whole family around, ever after. (Bruce also had a Trevor Project card on him and a card of mainstream suicide and mental health hotlines – he was Trying-with-a-capital-T to be more prepared, for any child, whether it was his own or otherwise.)
(Not that the Trevor Project directly applied to Dick, that Tim knew of, or to Tim, himself. Tim didn’t know if there was a story behind that one, or if it was just for the sake of preparedness.) (There was probably a story behind it.)
“Should you be carrying one?” Conner asked, this time ignoring the look Clark sent his way. Tim was proud of him for it.
“Honestly, if I ate a plate full of kiwi and peaches, right now, the worst that it could do to me doesn’t even approach the worst thing a Gotham summer can do to me. I’d be fine. Fuzzy-tongued, with a bit of a lump in my throat, and maybe a light rash if I touch the outside of either fruit, but an antihistamine would clear up most of my issues, and the rest is negligible,” Tim said.
“I’m tempted to ask if your idea of flirting is through too much information,” Bruce quipped.
“I’m not flirting,” Tim flashed Bruce a steely grin. “I’m being friendly. This doesn’t seem like the place to talk business.”
“Allergies?” Bruce raised a shrewd eyebrow.
“I did start it,” Tim turned back to Conner.
A waiter – not Anna – came to the table with a pair of appetizers that Bruce must have ordered when he ordered his drink. Another waiter – this one being Anna – demurely approached their table with their drinks, setting Bruce’s drink down first and working her way around the table, leaving Tim for last.
Tim offered her another of his steely, sharp smiles as he accepted his drink. “Thank you, Anna,” he said, saccharine.
Anna left in nothing short of a barely-disguised hurry, and Conner gave a low whisper. “Scary,” he said.
Tim turned his smile, still obscenely sharp, in Conner’s direction. And kicked him under the table. Conner, in surprise, jumped a little, then snorted. It was going to be a long dinner.
--
It was a long dinner, culminating in a long dessert. All the while, Bruce and Clark managed to hold a conversation that was startlingly mundane, for the both of them.
After dessert, and while Bruce and Clark were still talking over their own half-finished desserts, Tim made his bid for caffeine. The waiter he caught wasn’t Anna. This wasn’t much of a surprise, though. She hadn’t returned, once, since delivering their drinks. Conner managed to joke about Tim scaring her off, and earned another bruising kick for it.
Not that Tim’s kicks could actually bruise a Super.
“Espresso coffee, no cream,” Tim said, hand raised to keep the waiter’s attention. He gave a winning smile that said ‘I know what I’m doing, give me the caffeine.’
The waiter seemed to buy it, but Conner cleared his throat.
“Uh,” Conner got the waiter’s attention. “Actually, if you don’t mind, maybe something decaffeinated for Mr. Drake,” he said, in a low voice that Tim could hear – he kicked Conner’s shin in retaliation – and Clark definitely could hear. “Tea,” he suggested, voice a bit higher in surprise. It was as if he didn’t learn that violence followed Conner’s ill-advised decisions. “Decaffeinated tea.”
“Make it two decaff teas, because I’m not suffering alone,” Tim said. His caffeine intake was his business. You didn’t mess with Tim’s caffeine. Even Bruce didn’t mess with his caffeine. And only Steph had ever made a successful attempt at keeping Tim from his worldly, caffeinated god. He leaned forward, closer to Conner. “Don’t listen to Steph,” he muttered. Clark was keeping half an ear on the conversation, and clearly privy to the familiarity in the bickering. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“I don’t have to listen to Steph, I’ve seen you use the coffee pot instead of a mug,” Conner hissed back, leaning in a bit, himself.
“Lies and libel. I’ve never done that with anyone anywhere near the kitchen,” Tim kicked at Conner’s knee again. Mostly because Conner could feel it, but wasn’t actually hurt by it. Conner kicked the tip of his shoe against Tim’s shoe. It didn’t hurt, but Tim practically took the retaliation personally.
Clark adjusted his glasses and looked between the two teens. “Uh, Conner. Perhaps it would be best to allow Timothy to order whatever he likes,” he suggested, not unkindly, but clearly perplexed. Maybe he thought Conner was unaware of the norms associated with ordering at a restaurant.
“Just Tim will do, Mr. Kent,” Tim smiled brightly at him.
Conner startled a little, at the smile, then scratched the back of his head awkwardly. Clearly he saw right through the fake sunny disposition Tim was projecting.
Bruce sighed and turned to the conversation. “Tim?”
Tim glanced at him, analyzed his expression for a moment, then turned away.
“When.” Bruce’s demand came without a question in his tone.
“Honestly, I would like to preface this little confession by mentioning how quickly and easily Dick went about his early relationship with Wally,” Tim folded his hands on the table in front of himself, businesslike and almost distant from the topic. “And while his slip was entirely intentional, of his own volition and without a catalyst outside himself and Wally, mine was a series of incidents that lead to a completely accidental slip. While partial blame belongs to me, I would cite Dick, Bart, and Steph as co-conspirators, however unknowing. Possibly Clark?” Tim glanced at Conner, then over at Bruce. “And you.”
“Mmhm?” Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“Without this dinner reservation, Conner would probably not have been at the mall when he was, and the penultimate moment was in the mall, after a completely happenstance engagement, within,” Tim said, still talking in what almost approached legalese. The kind of talk you might use in a formal business meeting, or in an official statement of some kind.
“Mmhm,” Bruce responded.
“Today,” Conner spoke up.
“Steph said my name,” Tim huffed, releasing his professionalism and tension in one go and slouching in his seat. “Conner recognized the sunglasses he gave me.”
“And your hair,” Conner said.
Tim kicked at Conner’s knee again. Conner frowned at him for it, that time. What had he done to deserve that one?
“Bart was also present,” Tim said, ignoring Conner’s look. “A combination of factors – preexisting and just introduced – lead to the revelation. Not to be underestimated, however, is Conner’s own perceptiveness, which I’ve run into a handful of times while with the Team.” That was still generic enough for a public conversation, right?
The waiter turned up with Tim’s and Conner’s respective teas. Tim wrinkled his nose at the teacup.
“We will discuss this, later,” Bruce said. He turned back to Clark.
But that was… startlingly calm. Tim couldn’t even see any underlying tension. “Wait,” Tim scowled. “Wait, hold on a second, did you already know?” he asked.
Bruce turned back to Tim, eyebrow raised.
Of course he did. “How long have you known?” Tim asked.
“Not long,” Bruce said. “Only since you sat down and our friend Conner, here, put his perceptiveness to work, uncovering similar, and similarly important, secrets.” He raised his glass of wine to his lips, seeming for all the world to be the most relaxed bachelor in the room. Never mind that he was a single father three times over, already.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Conner said.
“On the contrary,” Bruce set his glass back down. “I’m pleased with how well you handled the revelation, and how well you kept it to yourself when you realized. Perception, knowledge, and wisdom. You might have one up on your old man.” Bruce toasted Clark with his glass, then took another sip.
For the third or so time that night, Clark looked positively stricken.
Tim wondered which one Conner had up on Clark, and if it weren’t more than one. For all Dick’s Superman worship, Tim didn’t see anything particularly special in that particular hero persona. At least, he didn’t see anything that put Superman above his legacies – Supergirl and Superboy. Maybe the legacies, because of how often they made their mistakes and had to evolve, were just more relatable.
Maybe it was just that Superman had never taken notice of Tim’s issues the way that Mom Friend Extraordinaire, Conner Kent, had. Hah, but that was only about twenty-four hours previous. Fat chance that Tim’s perception had been that changed by those events in that short of a time. Right? …Right?
Okay, there was something to be said for the attentiveness and personalized care Conner had offered.
“Uh, thank you, sir,” Conner said. He was mildly awed at the compliment, and rightly so.
--
The end of the night was an awkward, stilted round of handshakes and a “See you two at the gala, tomorrow,” from Bruce’s smiling, outgoing persona. Which reminded Tim that, yes, the gala was unavoidably the next day. And, no, he couldn’t just hide from it or ignore it.
But he could hide from or ignore Bruce, which he fully planned on doing in order to avoid the coming conversation about Secret Identities and why they were secret. There would be frowning and sternness and Tim might even get benched from patrols (or Team missions) for a while, however short, due to his carelessness in the Secret ID department. Speaking of that department: cleanup in aisle four! Or something.
And Tim did a good job of ignoring Bruce for the entire drive back to the Manor, with only the aid of his phone screen.
But, once at the Manor, all bets were off.