Chapter Text
Timothy Jackson Drake did not get involved in vigilante shit, even if he really wanted to.
That was, like, his one rule, he even had it posted on a sticky note stuck to his bathroom mirror. It helped him stop wondering what he would look like if he wore a domino mask.
He should probably have more rules, especially considering he lived in Gotham, and he did know Batman’s secret identity, which gave him an unusually high chance of becoming a supervillain. However, he’s always been a ‘break the rules’ sort of guy, and he supposes it might become more of a temptation than a deterrent if he started writing all these stupid rules like ‘don’t kill people.’
Unfortunately for him, Tim was breaking his singular rule.
Look, he really wouldn’t do it if he had a choice. He’s learned and grown from the ‘almost-chasing-down-Dick-Grayson-to-make-him-Robin-again’ incident during Middle School. Thank god he got a B- in French, and his mom went through with her boarding school in France threat; otherwise, there was a very good chance Batman would have strung him up by his toenails for figuring out his identity. Instead, after 3 years of schooling in France, Tim had come home to dead parents, Bruce Wayne adopting two girls, two new Batgirls, a Red Hood, and a freshly post-earthquake city. He had never been more glad to have FOMO.
Still, Tim had no parents, no proper income, and a landlord who wanted to raise prices.
That meant getting involved with vigilante shit.
See, coming back to Gotham after years of living in France after his parents were revealed to be part of the Cataclysm death toll meant several things. Like faking Tim Drake’s death so he didn’t get shoved into the Gotham Foster System and instead stealing his trust fund, making a fake identity, and pretending to be much older than he is. The problem with that is that it turns out trust funds do actually run out, and 21-year-old Theodore ‘Call me Teddy’ Sebastien Caillaux had never really worked properly a day in his life.
Sure, Teddy’s résumé had his IT freelancing help and his robotics tutoring at Gotham University, but those weren’t exactly the most hireable job experience unless he applied to work as a goon. Tim really didn’t want to work as a goon.
Hence, his desperation for a job that unfortunately coincided with vigilante shit.
Three days ago, rumors began circling the underground that Red Hood took over the Iceberg Lounge from Cobblepot. Two days ago, a couple of Lounge employees got fired. Yesterday, the Lounge manager turned up dead.
Most people would run far away from that situation.
Tim is not most people. Tim is 99.8% sure that Red Hood is a resurrected Jason Todd, which means he was Robin , and while that did not guarantee his safety, it did mean that this job is a whole lot safer than the thousands of other jobs in this vein.
So, Tim rocked up to the Iceberg Lounge at 2.30pm on a Wednesday, a fresh set of dye in his hair, his favorite jean booty shorts with sequin stars on the back pockets, and a dream.
He was immediately greeted with the words, “We’re not open yet,” but he was not deterred.
“I’m aware,” He said with a soft French accent spilling out from his cherry-lip-gloss smile. “I got told you’re hiring. I dance, and I look pretty when serving drinks.”
Neither of which he has done specifically for a job before. He picked up pole dancing classes six months ago after realizing Gotham didn’t have cheap ballet schools around every corner like Paris did, and he discovered the fact that he was pretty like that when his 15-year-old self and his trust-fund friends escaped boarding school for a wild night in Berlin, and he got mistaken for an escort and a bottle girl on two separate occasions that night. That was only two years ago, and now he’s applying for a job as a stripper.
How the times change.
“What’s your name?” The other goon demanded, jerking a double-chin at him.
He walked forward so he could put his shoulder bag down on the bar. Both guys kept their hands on their guns, but Tim kept himself calm, cool, and collected. He grew up in Gotham; he didn’t spook easily.
“I’m Birdie,” He offered.
“Real name.”
“ Bir-die ,” Tim crossed his arms and leaned a hip against the counter as he accentuated the name. “You want a different one, you hire me.”
This was a gamble, but he had to act like a seasoned dancer. He mimicked the confidence of the street girls who lived in his building and the mocking tone of the pretty French women who danced with him at clubs.
The first goon, the one with a particularly painful-looking eczema rash, scowled. “Boss!”
Oh good, his plan is paying off. It’s a risk to walk in when Red Hood was in, but the benefits outweigh the cost.
“What!” Hood roared from the other room.
Wait, fuck, shit, he sounds pissed . Bad timing, Tim! He so should’ve waited until dead bodies stopped turning up.
“There’s a stripper here looking for a job!” The goon (who Tim has started calling Marat in his head) yelled back.
Tim frowned, “I’m not a stripper , I’m a dancer .”
The asshole laughed. “Same thing.”
Tim was aware that he technically was applying to be a stripper, but still, dancer sounded classier , didn’t it? Besides, he’s at the Iceberg Lounge, which is basically the classiest (yet probably most dubious club) to go to.
Hood came out of a side room, helmet in hand, but the domino on his face wasn’t hiding the bafflement at all. “What?”
Well, Tim, that’s your cue: time to either nail this job interview or get your fingers nailed to the GCPD door.
“I’m Birdie,” He introduced himself, kicking off from his perch leaning against the bar. “I’m a dancer, and I know how to serve drinks. Cherie said that you’re a safe boss; she works for you— the corner near Mackie’s Diner.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes, “She didn’t tell me she was sending anyone over.”
“I didn’t tell her I was coming over,” He smiled, the real nice boyish one that made Parisian police let him go without arresting him for arson. Long story. “My last job just fell through, and I’d rather not go to a club run by Black Mask’s gang.”
Hood snorted with derision, “That ain’t safe for nobody. You French?”
“Gotham-born but Parisian-raised,” He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and sharpened his smile. “I can party and pair wine.”
Marat muttered under his breath, “I bet you do.”
Hood heard that. “Mark, Bill, go make sure the merchandise back there is secure. Let me finish off back here.”
Both of the goons stumbled off to the back, holding their guns in a way that made Tim absolutely certain that the ‘merchandise’ was some moron who pissed Hood off.
“So,” Hood put his helmet down and sat on one of the chairs, practically lounging as he spread his legs and leaned back in the too-small seat. “What’s your name, Birdie?”
“Like I told your friends,” Tim kept his movements casual and confident. “You get that when you hire me. I’m not that easy, Hood.”
“Aren’t you?” Hood gave him a smoldering look.
He didn’t want to do this, but he did really need a job, and his applications everywhere just kept getting rejected. Besides, this is way better than working a corner or becoming a hacker-thief. And this was Jason Todd, the second Robin.
Tim leaned forward, trailing a finger up his leather jacket and then playing with the shoulder loop. He sat down in the crime lord’s lap in a fluid movement, “Not in that way.”
“Uh-huh,” He didn’t sound impressed, even with the continued act of being interested. Why didn’t he sound impressed? Still, Hood put his arm around his waist and pulled him closer. “So…how old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” Tim purred, mildly panicking but refusing to be the first to lose this game. “Why? You wanna buy me a drink?”
“No.” Tim recognizes the movement before he actually sees it, but it’s too late, Hood has a death grip on him and the gun is under his chin before he can run away. “Let’s try this again, huh? What’s your name and how old are you?”
Tim knows what model of gun is pointed at him, knows it in a way he knows that the serials are filed off, and the bullets were smuggled into town. “My name is Theodore Caillaux. Most people call me Teddy. I am twenty-one.”
He glared at Hood as he said it, but he was stuck.
“You don’t look twenty-one.”
“Yeah, well, in this business, looking young sells. I just have a baby face.”
“Sure,” Hood sounded skeptical.
“What?” Tim snarled at him. “You scared this ride ain’t legal? I just play jailbait, honey; you aren’t robbing the cradle with me.”
Technically. He’s legal, technically. His fake ID says he’s 21, his real birth certificate says 17, and the age of consent in Jersey is 16. Hell, the age of consent in France is 15, and he and his friends have been sneaking into Germany, where it’s 14, for years. Technically, he’s been having completely legal hookups with older men and women for years. Some of it feels kinda weird looking back because he would never flirt with a freshman himself, but didn’t Superboy date that reporter lady in her late 20s? Now, that was weird; who wants to date an adult as a teenager? Getting coolness points for hookups is a whole other ballgame.
“So, Birdie, you want to work for me? Why?” Cocky little asshole still had a gun trained on him, but his trigger discipline was at least immaculate, so Tim wasn’t going to panic until the safety was off.
“Because I know you protect sex workers, and I want a job where I don’t fear getting beat up for telling a customer no.” Tim, an expert in being an asshole himself, shifted on his lap to lean away from the gun.
Hood didn’t even blink at the squirming man on his lap. Shit, was he straight? Most people with power don’t give a shit about gender because they’re all about the power dynamic. Then again, he’s Robin , he’s probably not a dickhead like some of the people Tim shouldn’t have slept with. Like his ex, who wanted him to buy her jewelry every time they went out but wouldn’t hold his hand in public.
“Is that how you lost your last job?” Hood looked straight at the bruises on his forearm and upper thigh when he spoke.
Actually, those were from holding his bracket grip too hard and fucking up a cradle spin during pole practice.
“I’m a dancer, not a hooker,” He answered. “And while I figured I’d be doing one or the other in order to get this job, I wasn’t planning on deepthroating your gun so if you could get that thing out of my face.”
Hood, thankfully, finally , put the gun away. Tim took that as his cue to stand up and get the hell away from the crime lord’s lap. He’s never flirting with this asshole again.
Hood got up himself, “You’re a fun one, Birdie. What dancing do you do? I doubt you did much Coyote Ugly up in Paris, and this ain’t some trashy club either. The girls here dance Burlesque.”
Rude. Tim is obviously not a trashy club kinda guy. Well, he did do poppers in Berlin, but that’s because half his year group were daring him to, and he wasn’t dealing with anyone calling him a prude for however many months until their next school breakout.
“Pole dancing, ballet, and some acrobatics and gymnastics,” He listed in the order of most recently acquired. “I haven’t danced Burlesque before but I’m a quick study and I’ve got the right experience.”
“Pole dancing, huh?” It was obvious enough considering that he was a dancer wanting a job at a club, but Hood didn’t make it sound like that was what he was expecting. “Hop on the pole. Impress me and I just might hire you.”
So, Tim did.
He was no Dick Grayson, but Tim had six months of pole dancing under his belt and a long history of fake IDs.
Making sure that the pole was on spin and sufficiently clean, he started with a front hook spin before switching to a chair and re-gripping into a fireman spin with a bracket hold. From there, he started climbing. He had only just started inverting a couple of months ago, so he was a little nervous to do this combo from his most recent class, but in for a penny, in for a pound. Once he was high enough, he inverted and hooked his right leg into a hang glider. He did a few pretty shapes, descended into a jasmine, held an ironically named superman, before climbing back down the pole. It was a short combo, but it was cute, and he made sure to move like the older girls in his pole classes, the girls with lash extensions and way too many small bills in their dance bags.
When he finished his routine, he slid down to the floor, crawled across the stage to where Hood was watching, and then leaned back to sit on his ankles, legs spread and eyes wide.
“So, is that good enough for you or do you want me to hop the bar and show you how I pour a martini too?” Tim hoped he didn’t have to because he has never made his own martini’s before. He was a king at battery acid jungle juice, however.
Hood just laughed. “I like you. You’re hired, Birdie, come back at 9pm to get ready with the rest of the girls.”
Tim would like to count this as him only half getting involved with vigilante shit due to Red Hood very clearly being more crime lord than bat, so he’s counting his hiring at the Iceberg Lounge as a win.