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Who: Tim Drake-Wayne (in clever disguise) and Bruce Wayne (doesn't need a disguise)
What: Terrible ideas in undercover investigation go terribly.
Where: The Vault
When: A couple of days throughout the week that make sense!
Warnings: TBE STILL; mention of sexual activities and death; drugging, bondage, and assault.

It sucks to be stuck in a world completely separate and disparate from his own. Even with Conner there as a friend and support, Tim still hates being dragged away from home, and his family and other friends. He can deal with it, of course, he isn't about to let a little case of multidimensional kidnapping stymie him or stop him doing what he's always done, he just doesn't have to like it. So when he's not working (very slowly) on the possibilities for getting out of here, or looking into the job and housing market to prepare for the exit strategy to be a very long one, or keeping Conner company so neither of them get too bummed out or screwed up by this place - in between all of that, he's been doing his best to investigate the criminal state of Baedal. Carefully, he doesn't want to draw attention to himself - not from the criminal element or the militia, not just yet. So it's mostly been plain-clothes snooping, listening for rumours, talking to the right people or simply engaging the long process of finding out who the right people to talk to are. Some parts of the city remind him of Gotham, especially the underbelly, but the people are different, and he needs to build contacts, form a network, before he can really get anywhere.

Not that that stops crime from happening, still, and not that he's going to wait until he's in a completely secure position to start combating it.

One of the places he's heard rumours about is the Vault. A relatively new adult club offering entertainment from the sensual to the... less than reputable, from all accounts. It seems like a good place to start - it's new and popular enough to be attracting some of the larger names or their scouts, he's sure, and clubs like that are often a hotbed of illegal activity he should be keeping an eye on and working to shut down even if he magically doesn't manage to pin down any druglords or gang leaders.

He doesn't have much spending money just yet, so he has to work his disguise to a budget - nothing elaborate, jsut simple and effective. So the first time he shows up at the Vault, he has cheap but effective wash-in wash-out red dye in his hair, spiked into a different style, and simple black clothes on - trousers with a few decorative straps, leather boots, and a mesh shirt with leather straps that draw attention to certain areas but do nothing to hide the various scars he carries. He couldn't really afford enough make up to cover all of them effectively, even just his arms, and the kind of people he's looking to draw in most likely won't mind, so instead he's making a point of showing them off. That first time, he doesn't get in too deep, just hears some meaty rumours and buys or is bought a few drinks that he doesn't drink most of, and is left feeling that there's more to this place he needs to uncover.

It's the second time he shows up, with a reasonable gap not to seem over-eager but not so long he's unfamiliar, that he gets in a little deeper. He takes in a stage show and catches wind that he should really check out the more private offerings, and that's promising. He notices one or two familiar faces, some he's talked to and others he'd only seen before they vanished silently, while mingling in the main room - he recognises one of the men who seems to be a reoccurring but silent presence as someone he's gathered from eavesdropping is called Tom, but again, he isn't approached, and he carefully picks a moment when Tom isn't in sight to slip towards the more private, quieter areas of the club, just in case he's internal security of some kind.

His first stop is the bathroom - easy to explain, easy to eavesdrop, and often a first pick for an out of the way meeting place to conduct illicit transactions. And just as popular for consuming drugs, too, so he's hardly surprised to encounter a small huddle of junkies of some kind - it's in their body language and the suspicious looks they throw at him as he seemingly obliviously, seemingly drunkly sways his way into a stall. And then they apparently forget he's there, speaking in loud whispers to each other. Mostly nothing, but maybe he can overhear something useful about their suppliers, or names of drugs to look into.

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Despite the bio-toxin, Tim is able to note the deliberate care and the way Bruce's hands move as if used to exerting a gentle touch - which registers as odd, even if he can't put as much thought into that as he usually would. The ringleader of that little group had wanted him sensate but helpless, able to feel things - if he'd been as dosed up as the girl, they wouldn't be having this conversation, for a start. He gets the feeling that Bruce might have preferred that.

But since they're talking, he's putting as much concentration into it as possible, the effort unusually visible.

"So this isn't your first visit to another world." Since he knows about them, enough to know that they don't exist for him. And that's... a cold, stark thought as it percolates through his head. A Batman without Robin is nothing but grim darkness, controlled violence teetering on a spiral of self-destruction without another presence to alleviate that darkness - without someone else to focus on protecting at his side, and therefore to focus on protecting himself for their sake.

He has a feeling this Bruce might not see it that way.

"I guess it's difficult knowledge to deal with." On both ends.

Bruce has walked through enough worlds to know about the version of himself who raises these children for slaughter, and he hates the knowledge of it. He knows there's more to it, between the injured way Grayson had flinched silent on the subject and that woman with the mask and her infant. There's more of them, he knows it. And it's completely unacceptable. Tonight is easy proof of that.

He considers expressing concern - discards it.

"The older one was more competent." Deliberate. His voice is flat, and he cuts off the edge of the violet suture thread. He doesn't want to use names; he got along with Richard. Even liked him, grudgingly. It's unsettling, now, to know that this Tim isn't the one he interacted with, doesn't know the older boy that he knew.

"You should consider a real job." He starts on the last cut.

Barely a flinch, and it's more self-reproaching than anything - he screwed up tonight, and he knows it. He still would have acted to save the girl if he had a chance to re-do things, but he should have just moved to beating up the thugs instead of trying to stay low-key. Sometimes, subtlety just isn't the right choice.

"Duh. Everyone likes Dick best." He says that like it is an inevitable fact, not sarcastically - although it might not be true of his friends like Conner, there's an undeniable air of awe around Nightwing that they fall into, as well. And Dick is just... impossible not to like. He doesn't expect to match up to that in comparison.

And as for competence, he'll just have to work on it.

"I've been looking." In between working on other things, to varying degrees of success.

"You've been here for almost a month."

It would sound like somebody's nagging mother if it wasn't so flat and creepy. Why are you watching him, Bruce? (...Why does that need to be asked?)

With his injuries patched up - and comments about Dick thoroughly ignored - Bruce wipes any remaining blood down and cleans up his work. Tim'll be fine. They aren't the prettiest stitches in the world, but they'll work just fine; Bruce has always been better at getting injuries than mending them. He rises, goes across the room to the small kitchen to put the tools he was using in a steel tin he's presumably keeping for sterilization, and then gets a glass of water. Not for him.

He sits back next to Tim and places the glass near the younger man's head, eying him with an air that says perhaps he should take this opportunity to hydrate himself. "It'll be out of your system by the time you wake up."

He doesn't even ask about Bruce watching him, it's expected. And after tonight, he's grateful for it, even if it does result in not-quite-nagging about his state of employment.

He raises an eyebrow at the water, but moves to take it - clumsily, but he manages not to drop the glass. Drinking takes a concerted effort with his co-ordination still royally fucked up, and he takes it slow, just sipping the water. It helps him feel a little better, at least, although it's frustrating to feel like he could fumble at any second. He hates being drugged, there are zero pleasant associations for him.

"Alright. I wasn't sure which skills I should really be flaunting on the job market."

He pauses, considers. But there's no way Bruce isn't aware of Conner already, just from the network. "My friend is more concerned with finding a way back. ... He'll be worried when I'm late back, but that's... not abnormal."

Not the hand-to-hand combat skills, young man.

There's a pause, and it almost feels incredulous, even though his reaction is more uncertain than irritated. "Do you want to see him now?"

Bruce doesn't sound like he believes Tim really wants to see anyone - or have anyone see him - like this.

But dad, what if he wants to work in the arena.

He blinks, and pauses to think about it for just a second, but the answer is absolutely certain. "He's my best friend, Bruce. If there's anyone I'd want to be around me right now more than him, it'd be Alfred." Best friend, indeed.

That's where he turns a little more subdued. "But that doesn't mean I want him to have to see me - when I'm this messed up, no." There's a sense that he's being protective of Conner, strangely enough. He doesn't like reminding his meta friend that he's breakable and simply human, not in such visceral ways, and it would further mean exposing him to elements that are very much Bat rather than Super.

He doesn't want to work in the arena, because Tim isn't a moron.

There's no reaction past his first assertion, and Bruce waits for the but he knows his coming. As he thought; and so it's a non-issue. (If Tim had been contrary and said yes, call him Bruce would have simply shrugged and refused. This is already one more person than necessary in one of his safe houses.)

He's quiet for a while, watching him.

"Go to sleep."

It's more gentle than one might expect, and too soft-spoken to be a real order - he's not used to giving orders, but all the same, it's clear he's not used to anyone just not listening to him, either. Bruce stands up again, and goes to pull another blanket and pillow from the closet for Tim, who should be pretty exhausted by now. They'll deal with getting him back to his friend in the morning, when his head isn't full of xenian toxins.

This is true, he's not letting Conner know it's even a possibility to work in the arena, either.

Technically Tim could call Conner himself, all he has to do is say his name with the right tone of voice, but that little trick is for absolute emergencies and best kept a secret - even from Bruce, at least for now. And it would be kind of rude to just have a metahuman coming crashing into his safehouse after he went out of his way to both save and care for him, so. That option is safely discarded.

It takes him a moment to lay down after Bruce tells him to sleep - or suggests it, in that soft tone of voice, but it's nonetheless clear that Tim is expected to listen - and he is utterly exhausted. Even if he wanted to stay up any longer and feed the sparks of curiousity about this Bruce buzzing through him, he knows it's a bad idea - he'll just end up saying something nonsensical or regrettable or both, or throwing up on Bruce's couch, or something.

He made the mistake of wearing boots with far too many buckles for him to manage to unfasten by himself, so he just flops over on his side and curls up gratefully under the provided blanket. He really does have a knack for making himself small.

"Thank you. ... And sorry I screwed up."

He doesn't answer; he's not going to give him any more shit for it (he's been through enough), but it's not going to tell him that it's fine, either (it isn't). It is what it is, and while it is not Tim's fault, because being assaulted is never the fault of anyone besides the person doing the assaulting, there is a difference between the girl he traded places with and someone who wants to be a crime fighter. These are the risks. The judgment is just as brutal and unfair.

Bruce rises, leaves him, and goes about doing something else - silently. He won't wake him up at any point. Tim needs the rest.

It doesn't take long for Tim to fall asleep, a combination of the toxin and the habital neccessity to get as much sleep as possible out of offered opportunities prompting him to basically pass out on the spot. Left undisturbed, he sleeps for a solid eight hours, give or take - he's been running on less than that for a long time, not just since coming to Baedal. Bruce will probably notice that it isn't always a completely peaceful sleep, small noises and movements at times suggesting Tim is having a restless dream or even a nightmare, but it's never serious enough to cause him to wake by himself.

When he does wake up, he feels groggy and nauseaous, just as Bruce said he would. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and then he's sitting up and pushing the blanket off, movements slowed by a desire not to cause himself to throw up. Ugh, and his stomach is sore, muscles aching, but that's to be expected, and it could have been much worse.

Bruce doesn't sleep at all, but that's not abnormal; he has followup work to do, and he has to start the process of letting this apartment go - they were probably followed, at least partway, so he sets up a dummy identity for someone Tom was friends with, before they vanished. He goes through his notes, makes more, combs through the network, and a hundred other tasks that don't require he leave this room.

As Tim surfaces, he's talking quietly over his CiD with someone - someone full-voiced and Scottish-sounding, and Bruce (Tom) seems relaxed about it, if typically reserved. Whatever they're discussing is too obscured by his awareness of a potential eavesdropper to be properly picked up, and by the time the younger man is stirring, the conversation has ended.

Quietly, and nearby - "You okay?"

Tim would have waited for Bruce to finish before speaking, anyway, but he's aware that the concern is more on the end of stopping him from eavesdropping, which is... expected. And exactly what Tim would do in the same situation, although he's also aware that he'd have much less luck obscuring what he was saying from Bruce, at least when dealing with his Bruce - that's how the weight of experience stacks up.

"I feel like crap," he admits, sitting up straight and running a hand back through his hair - messy and slightly too crunchy with gel and cheap dye, he needs a shower. For the sake of his hair and a few other reasons. But, stitches. "Exactly as predicted, so yeah, under the circumstances I'm fine."

He raises an eyebrow just slightly. "Calling Scotland?" Shut up, he's not a morning person, okay.

"Yes." Flippancy gives as it gets.

Satisfied that Tim hasn't expired during the night, he points in the general vicinity of his torso, indicating he's going to need to take a look at his stitches, though he makes no move to get closer or attempt to manhandle him into it. Once that's established, he points towards the bathroom.

"Will you eat eggs?"

Well, he walked into that one. "Anyone in particular from Scotland - or similarly accented alien world?" As if that were a perfectly reasonable possibility.

He's a little curious about the state of his torso himself - his memories aren't as clear as he'd like, after a certain point. He feels stiff, and sore, but there's no throbbing from the cuts, which is a good sign, so he's only a little hesistant to lift his shirt and bare his stomach and lower chest for inspection. And cranes his neck to look for himself - looks like they worked hard to find unscarred patches of skin to mark.

"Sure, eggs sound good." Sudden, sharp pause, and he gives Bruce a guarded look. "... Did you cook them yourself?"

Bruce just tilts his head a little at Tim, like - does he really think he'll talk about his CiD conversations with him? (It's obviously not top secret, since he was fine with conducting it in the room with Tim, but he's still. Well. Bruce.)

Tim's wounds look fine - he's ignoring the scarred surface of the rest of him, just like he was last night - since they aren't infected or growing tentacles; that determined, he stands up again and moves towards the door. He pointed the bathroom out, surely he can sort himself for a few minutes.

As he steps out: "If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it while you were asleep."

He is going to go get food, yes.

(Tim can try to dig through the apartment while he's gone - he won't have long, he's just going to the cafe downstairs, and there's nothing left here to glean, anyway.)

It was worth a try. Besides, he feels like he needs to poke at the Bruceness of Bruce, in the least obtrusive way possible, to get a more complete feel of how he compares to the Bruce he's always known. Not that he realistically expects to get anything like a complete picture.

It is somehow reassuring to know that he still can't cook, though maybe that's an odd universal constant to latch onto (if Bruce can't cook, it means he's never really had to, which means he has Alfred, which means Alfred is the universal constant Tim is really seeking out don't argue with this logic).

Tim does spend a moment or two scanning the apartment and poking into corners, but it's clearly a safe house and bare of anything beyond the basic necesseties. So he heads into the bathroom to clean himself up, splashing cold water in his face and then considering how to tackle his hair. He ends up leaning halfway into the shower and using the showerhead to rinse out the dye while keeping his head tilted down, to avoid getting the rest of him wet, and he will try to make sure it's all out before drying his hair so there aren't any suspicious faint red stains left on Bruce's towels.

It gives him time to think, and he knows he needs to call Conner, or at least send him a message - it's not like at home, where his missions are completely his business unless they involve the Titans or he chooses to call in his friends. He and Conner are stuck here together, essentially alone for the time being, and they need to look out for each other. Even if he does prefer to do things solo... he also doesn't want Conner worrying unduly. A worried Super is nothing to underestimate.

It's a fine line to walk: he has to present himself as similar enough to the Bruce Wayne of his own life that Tim will trust him and cow to his authority, but different enough that Tim will be too unsettled to try too hard to pry into his business. As he isn't privy to anything besides a few disturbing notions and a broad watercolor of that other world, all he can do is allow glimmers of what he knows to be alike shine through, as if incidental, and hope that it's enough.

He's not actually gone for very long - the woman who runs the kitchen downstairs has decided Tom is funny (she, genuinely, is not from Earth), and will make his food for him promptly as long as he chats with her as she works. So he's already halfway through his steak and egg burrito, sitting on a bar stool in the dilapidated near-empty kitchen, by the time Tim gets out of the bathroom. There's a second one still wrapped in yellow butcher paper waiting on the end of the counter, something tenuously between a lure and a peace offering, though it comes with no remark or even notable acknowledgement from Bruce.

Bruce is doing reasonably well at walking that line so far, and Tim is inclined to trust him at least a little - not absolutely, not even his own Bruce commanded absolute trust, and at times it has actively been discouraged to force him to think critically about everyone in his life (with varying degrees of success) - it's enough to make a start with. He's still curious, of course, but he doesn't want to push that too far.

He walks over, moving quietly by habit, and picks up the burrito, examining it. ... And then his stomach rumbles. Okay, so it looks good, and he can't really keep to his super fussy egg white omelette and salad diet here, and his body could undoubtedly use the nutrients to help recover from any lingering after-effects of the toxin. He takes a bite, and finally sits down on another bar stool next to Bruce.

"How much do you know?"

Keeping his curiousity relevant to his own world.

Egg whites and salads when you lead a high-activity lifestyle will kill your body, Tim. Eat your protein.

Bruce doesn't answer for a while; ostensibly, it's under the umbrella of not wanting to talk with his mouth full, and this steak, while good, is not exactly tender enough to melt. His silence lingers, though, brushing up against a conversationally rude pause in which it seems like he might not respond at all, then-

"About what?"

(Don't be a dick, Bruce.)

No he refuses, he will drink those nasty tasting protein drinks if he needs to.

Tim waits, and gives Bruce a flat look at that response. He in fact goes so far as to get out his CiD and deliberately type out a short text message to let Conner know that he's alive, he got stuck on an overnighter and will be getting groceries on the way back, do they need anything - which is his way of giving Conner an opening to demand something by way of apology for going on a Freaky Bat Mission without him - before giving Bruce an answer.

"About me. About us." He pauses, at length, but he's not sure Bruce deserves quite that level of conversational terrorism. "Me and Dick and how our world differs to yours, basically."

Whatever, Tim, this burrito is awesome. (And Bruce does watch him send that text message, even if it doesn't look like he's watching.)

It's just that kind of conversational terrorism, interestingly enough, that has Bruce so cold. The easy deliberateness of it, that things like you and us can be used so interchangeably to describe this knot of sycophantic children. He takes a drink of water, and then finally looks up at Tim. His expression is unreadable, his voice is dull.

"Enough to know that I upset your brother, and I don't work well with any of you."

This burrito may well be awesome (it is) but he's going right back to his eating habits once he's out of here. (Creeper.)

Tim raises an eyebrow at that look, mulling over the words and their wider implications. It's interesting, and ties in with the way Bruce tried to avoid him until it came to the crunch - he doesn't work well with them, he doesn't want to work with any of them, and even though he feels Dick is more competent he still managed to upset him. Which isn't entirely surprising, if he's honest.

"You know, you've managed to upset Dick like fifty times in the time I've known you - in my world - so unless you really mean that he finds your general existence offensive, you'll have to be specific." Only a little dryly sarcastic. "You haven't worked with me, but taking that on merit - do you prefer working with Superman? Because I did wonder sometimes."

It seems Tim's grown past whatever puppy-dog-eyes impulses he had when Bruce had interacted with him before - if this is even the same boy - and it's heartening. Not only does he seem stronger, the flippant attitude he takes concerning vigilantism grates on Bruce's nerves like nothing else, and it makes it that much easier to detach from him inside. He loses his appetite entirely, and whether or not Tim catches it, a nearly-imperceptible shift somewhere inside of him takes place, going from necessary distance to genuine distaste.

(There are, whether or not it's worth noting, absolutely no signs of even subconscious recognition at the name 'Superman'.)

"I told you already."

None of you exist in my world.

None of you.

Bruce drains the rest of his water, stands, crumples the wrapper in his hands before tossing it nearly absently into the bin. He shrugs his jacket on, and pulls out one of the kitchen drawers, removing a thin file folder held together with a bit of elastic from underneath a beaten up utensil tray. He sets it on the counter next to Tim's elbow. Job listings - technical work, some lobbyist interning, miscellaneous academia, with notes about who is and isn't worth calling.

And that's apparently all he has to say, because after he passes that off, Bruce turns away and heads right out the door without another word.

"Bru-...ce." Tim does that slightly embarrassing thing of standing up and starting to call after Bruce as he's leaving, only to trail off and sit back down with a resigned sigh. If Bruce Wayne has decided the conversation is at an end, then it just is, and he doesn't know this Bruce - or this Bruce doesn't know him well enough to endure being chased after with anything like good humour. And that's the crux of the problem he's having here, that part of what he's used to in conversations with Bruce is a certain level of camaraderie (who would use that word and apply it to Batman, Tim) and dry, understated humour, at least outside of talking about actual crime. He had been trying to ease the conversation and make a connection that's just not there, and possibly never will be; if this Bruce doesn't know any of them, doesn't know Clark or any other heroes, then he hasn't had their influence to soften the abrasive edges of his view on superheroism and vigilantism, and... well, he's seen what can happen when Bruce has no-one around to lighten his focus. He feels like a teenager again, young and uncertain of how to approach Bruce, but growing absolutely certain that he has to, somehow.

He takes his time finishing the burrito and picking through the job listings, noting some of particular interest to look into and grateful for the thought, before checking over the rest of the apartment and snagging a jacket with a high collar. Between that and cleaning his hair, he looks much different, and it covers the stitches and bruising on his neck better than the mesh shirt, so when he leaves it shouldn't arouse any undue interest from anyone, hopefully.

He considers the availability of electronic equipment in Baedal, then the chances that Bruce would take him to a place he hadn't bugged in some fashion.

"Thanks for the job listings. I'm borrowing a jacket. If you want it back, or decide we need to talk, you know where to find me."

If he's wrong, he just talked to himself in an empty apartment, with no-one around to be embarrassed in front of. Message potentially left, he heads out, slipping into the alleyways and from there into the streets.

Edited 2012-01-06 21:59 (UTC)

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