Chapter Text
Jason scowled staring at the building. Memories of ice cream and laughter after patrol flitted through his head tinted green. Green with rage. Green with anger. Green with hatred. Green with the need of blood.
His fingers twitched towards his guns.
He forced himself to look away, shoving the pit down.
He narrowed his eyes at the open Dairy Queen. He half wondered if the meet up spot was a coincidence. But Jason knew nothing was a coincidence when it came to Timothy Drake.
The bell echoed in the almost empty shop, as his combat boots stomped through. He was wearing civilian clothes, per the Replac-Red Robin’s request. But he still kept his shoes to run in, and his guns and knives to fight with. It was Gotham.
His eyes focused in on the only customer in the building. He was sitting at the booth window seat, staring right at him. It was a tactical spot, Jason knew. He could see both entrances and exits, and clearly see where Jason had been standing outside moments ago.
His fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t want to work with the brat. Every time they even tried, or hell even saw each other, it ended with Jason beating the shit out of him and almost killing him. Titans Tower. The graveyard. The fight for the stupid ass cowl. If anyone would want revenge on Jason? It would be him. There was a reason Jason stayed the fuck away from him.
Jason slid into the booth across from the kid who once wore the colors he died in.
“You need information,” He said simply
Jason grunted.
Of course he did. And Barbie couldn’t help him. She just sent him towards the kid he almost killed three times.
It was a dumb move.
But Jason really needed that information.
“Do you know what the currency of Gotham is?” Rep-Tim asked
Jason narrowed his eyes but let him keep talking.
“One is money,” The kid said leaning back in his side of the booth grinning, “ Money gets you almost anywhere in Gotham. Money gets you to places. Gets you to people.”
Jason was all too familiar with what he was saying. Money had been the reason his own biological mother sold him out. Money had been the reason the Joker was made an ambassador of Iran. Money was the reason Bruce couldn’t have killed him. Money was power. Money was flimsy castle of protection.
The kid smirked at him, “Did you ever wonder how I managed to track you and Bruce down on patrols?”
Jason blinked at the non sequitur.
The kid raised an eyebrow.
Jason blinked again, “Fuck. I don’t know? Smart? Privileged Bristol kid?”
Tim had the audacity to fucking laugh.
“When you weren’t patrolling with Bruce at night, what did you in Gotham?” The kid asks him
Jason wanted to snarl. Wants to scream. Wants to shoot him in the head. Wants the fucking coffee machine behind the bar to stop screaming.
Jason forced himself to breathe. Breathe like Talia taught him. In four. Hold for three. Out four. Reign in the pit. Focus. Control. Focus.
“We got start of patrol ice cream,” Jason forced out the words, “And throughout the night we’d get food from different small business. And sometimes we’d get Big Belly or Batburger at the end of the night.”
It was some of the newer memories Jason had recovered. Bruce laughing, ruffling his hair. Jason leaving an extra tip to the vendors, happy at the thought of being able to actually help them out a little bit and not have to steal from them like he had to when he was younger.
Tim nodded, “Close enough.”
Jason’s eye twitched.
“You got Batburger every night with Bruce at the end of patrol, when Dick was Robin was a Thai place down the street. When I first started out photography, I didn’t know shit,” Tim shrugged, “ All I knew were a few names behind a mask, how to use my mom’s old camera, and that above money, above wealth and cash, Gotham had another currency. Information.”
Jason stilled at that.
He wasn’t wrong.
Information in Gotham came at a price.
A secret for a secret.
A name for a location.
The question was what did Timothy Jackson Drake want in return for the information that Jason needed?
“Bruce changed patrol routes with each Robin. When you became Robin I had to relearn where to go, where to hide, where to sit. But what I needed first, was where to start. So I walked in here one night. The old owner of this DQ used to finical issues, kindest man on third street, but didn’t know a lick about finacing paychecks.”
Jason’s jaw clicked, “What does this have to do with what I need from you?”
Tim narrowed his eyes.
Jason’s eyes flared green.
“I walked in one night; I made the old owner an offer. I help him. He helps me. My father taught me to check his books since I was kid, and the owner just so happened to sell ice cream to the big Bat and bird,” Tim said easily unbothered by the clear signs of the pit showing in Jason’s eyes, “I needed a time. He needed numbers. We did our business and went our separate ways. I did the same thing for the owner of the old Big Belly you used to end your patrol at. I had two points of time. And all I had to do by the end was track them together. And to this day, those men who helped me, give me information, and I help with their books.”
Jason, if this had been any other kid, would’ve been horrified at a child having an informant channel.
But this was Timothy Drake. The kid who knew Bruce’s identity when he was nine. The kid who stole Robin. The kid who lied to Batsy.
Jason knew better to underestimate him.
“What this story in particular has to do with me helping you?” Tim says leaning forward elbows on the table, “Is that you may have been a street kid. But you’ve never worked the streets of Gotham. You are in over your head. The Gotham Gala is not something you are ready for.”
Jason’s eyes widened hungrily, “So you know what it is? The Gotham Gala?”
Tim shrugged, “I may. I may not. Again I say, information is a two way street in Gotham, Jason.”
He said the name as a fae would. With power and knowing. Jason jutted his chin out.
“What do you want to know, Drake?”
Tim grinned sharply, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Jason stared at Tim.
Tim stared back.
Jason had the feeling that it was no accident that he overheard the words ‘Gotham Gala’ from a crook who was trying to sell a kid.
“I want the name of whoever you heard about the Gala from.”
Jason looked at him warily. He knew Bruce didn’t kill. He knew Dickface had before but always always tried not to.
This was a wild card. If Tim didn’t stick to the exchange of information, the man could die or disappear before Jason could track him down for more answers.
“Uther Travis,” Jason offers
Tim nodded slowly, “The Gotham Gala happens only once a year. The location is never the same. Anyone who is someone or anyone who is no one is there.”
Jason’s eyebrow furrowed. If that was true, why hadn’t Bruce ever attended? Why hadn’t Barbie been able to help? She had been to hundreds of galas with her dad.
“How do I get in?” Jason asks, brain already forming break in plans and ideas
Tim smirked, head tilting, “I was invited of course.”
Jason’s brain short circuited.
Tim slid across a piece of paper with coordinates written on it.
“Meet me here tomorrow. Wear a good suit. And no guns allowed. Midnight. Sharp.”
Jason had a thousand and one questions screaming inside his head. How was he invited. Where was this? What was this? Why had no one ever heard of this gala?
Tim slid out of the bar and was gone in a blink of an eye.
Jason’s eye twitched. Was this what it felt like to be Gordon?
His fingers wrapped around the paper.
Guess he needed to buy a new suit.