Archive of Our Own ^beta

Tim checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time and bounced on his heels, nerves and excitement bouncing against his rib cage in equal measure as he waited for the doors to open.

The gallery was called "Heights," officially after the vertical landscaping of the city and unofficially for the circus act that inspired him as a child, and Tim couldn't wait to see how others reacted to his work.

Well, Alvin Draper's work, he reminded himself as he fixed the white domino mask and matching wig (more outrageous meant more separation between Tim and the #VigilantePhotographer Reddat tag, as even the not-so-small minority that had it right would have to admit that he did not look the part). A few layers of makeup matched his skintone to the mask, making his mouth the only feature distinguishable to passersby because it actually moved.

Did you know that a large part of visual recognition is hair? A picture with the person's eyes edited out is easier to identify than a picture of the person without eyebrows.

Tim Drake was an A Honor Roll student with a head for numbers, not some rooftop stalker. Even if that persona (which felt more real than Plastic Doll Heir) was particularly talented in his field.

Around him, photographs gleamed in their frames, some with the vivid pop of colorful digital rendering and others with the sleak class of black and white film development. It was exhausting running back and forth between the printing shop and the camera shop, but the results were worth it. Some elements were best with digital, like on the fly action and bright palettes, while others required the careful attention to detail and contrasts offered by film.

Regardless of the benefits and detriments of either, Tim was determined to demonstrate that digital and film photography were both necessary and complimentary to an urban environment.

And also to earn some pocket money independent of his parents' accounts because they had already demonstrated that they were both clumsy and lazy in the context of caring for a child, but saying as such would drag down the creative vibe and was simply not worth mentioning in either sense of the word.

He carefully ignored the fact that children his age of a similar demographic (posh posh, silver spoon babies and whatnot) probably did not think about where their necessities came from, much less about money. He was nine, surely that was old enough to think about important things.

Tim was six when he came up with the idea, but developing entrepreneurial ambitions was considered adorable rather than concerning, so he knew it was okay.

The pictures spoke for themselves, the atmosphere of each lightening or darkening the surroundings accordingly. He didn't even have to buy spotlights for the walls; the windows of the gallery were sufficient to illuminate the space.

Gargoyles leered from ledges on high, birds flew with careless grace, and villains and heroes clashed and laughed in turn. The last was...a bit controversial in places, even though the villains he selected were relatively harmless or strayed towards anti-heroism more often than not.

Right as he fixed his cufflinks (red and camera shaped. Looked expensive, but was actually carefully glazed ceramic art he had made in art class a couple weeks prior) for the third or fourth time, the doors opened.

The boy was quickly lost in the crowd of glittering gowns and monochromic suits, brushed aside as the elites discussed the latest ("Did you hear about Angela's sixth husband's extended trip in South Asia?" or "Johnson and Johnson started tests of their flying chair, don't you know") gossip.

Taking refuge in an alcove, Tim rolled his eyes behind the mask. Whoever thought only women gossiped clearly had never spent even five minutes at a social gathering.

But one would also assume that the photographer whose work the patrons were nitpicking and hawhawing about (or a creepy faceless person) would draw their attention, but when did the posh posh crowd ever make sense according to the common commonsense ideology?

Tim checked that his nametag (also red, to stand out against his white suit and to complement his cufflinks) was visible, which had his alias and 'Photographer' printed in Medium Garamond, 14 pt font. It was. They had no excuse.

He then noticed that someone else was in his corner and turned to introduce himself only to freeze when he recognized the teen.

"Hello, my name is Richard Grayson, pleasure to meet you."

Richard Grayson (soon to be Grayson-Wayne, if the rumors on the playground were true, and they usually were. The children hadn't learned how to block out conversations not related to their own importance yet, poor things), colorful shadow of the Knight, held out his hand to shake, a charming if awkward smile painted on his face.

While his suit was perfect for his body type (was that a Brioni? He internally raised his eyebrows. Not one of The most expensive or ostentatious on their listing, but the cut was familiar from his suit hunt), the teen almost but not quite hunched in the jacket (if his eye wasn't so discerning, Tim would've thought Richard was right at home in the suit), clearly not used to the fit.

Tim couldn't help but agree. As luxurious as high qualify fabric felt to the touch, he would rather wear a nicely worn sweatshirt for comfort.

While his observation period was only for a split second (most of the notes were just sentence fragments and emotional responses, unsuitable for storytelling), Tim felt that delaying any longer would be seen as hesitation and took Richard's hand.

Giving a proper handshake, Tim Drake smiled and said, "Alvin Draper, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Letting go of The Robin's hand, he took note of the surprise on the fellow socialite's face, made a couple deductions, then laughed and gestured to his face. "And yes, I am aware that my getup is fairly unusual for events like this. Don't worry, it is all purely cosmetic."

Richard exhaled, clearly relieved for some reason. "Okay, so the, um," he pointed at his own eyes, "the face, is a mask?"

Tim grinned and tapped over his eye, the plastic making a faint tapping sound. "Yep. I was going for a classic blank slate look. Did it work?"

The teen slowly nodded, his eyebrows shooting up. "Yes, if blank means vampiric. It is very...creepy."

Tim frowned. That was not what he was going for. "So...going by your description, it now makes sense why the clientele are ignoring the person behind, " he subtly swept his hand across the room, "all of this."

Richard raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying that you took the pictures?"

Tim rolled his eyes, then remembered who he was talking to and was glad he was wearing a mask. "Yes, I did. Granted, I only started a couple months ago, so the selection is a bit sparse."

"Only a couple months and fifty eight pictures is a bit sparse? Are you yanking my leg?"

He shrugged. "I certainly think so. Heavens, this is only a small portion of the total. Most of the pictures were either of low quality or inappropriate subject."

Richard squinted. "You are...twelve, yes?"

"I'm afraid that I cannot tell you my age, personal identifiable information and all that. Why do you ask?"

The boy's words were slow, as though he thought that Tim was slow as well. Rude. "Inappropriate subject?"

"Oh, that." Tim waved that aside, not sure what connotations were associated with the phrase but not wanting to look like an idiot. "Controversial material, crime scenes, stuff that doesn't fit with the theme, things like that. Kittens playing in an alleyway are adorable, but that does not fit at all with Heights, unless I'm mistaken?"

Richard furrowed his brow in deep thought, then asked, "Do you often take photos of crime scenes?" Was that concern in his eyes? Nope, Tim had to nip that in the bud right that instant.

"Of course not," Tim flipped his hand and laughed like the way he'd seen his mother do on occasion when she dismissed an idea she knew was fact as absurd. "I am not the sort to gallivant about searching for hooligans. The only safe routes would be by rooftop, and I simply cannot stand heights unless there's a pane of glass between me and the street. No, I sometimes see things when taking walks, that is all."

Richard looked overwhelmed by the burst of lies information, and the next second a large shadow fell over them. "Hi, Dick, how's it going?"

Tim looked and saw the infamously vacuous (blank-eyed, bubble-headed, the list of descriptors went on) smile of Bruce "Brucie" Wayne, fellow posh posh silver spoon person.

Children looking on from afar said that he looked just like a Ken doll with mildly fascinated if disturbed expressions. Their parents just cooed over his money and laughed at his vapid (albeit hilarious) jokes while trying to get into his wallet.

Tim saw a patch of makeup covering a bruise from patrol, and saw a man wearing layers of masks. The image of an onion helmet popped into his mind, and his lip twitched. 

Richard cleared his throat. "I am doing well, Bruce."

The Ken doll-- sorry, the billionaire with a successful company-- nodded, his smile growing wide and his eyes soft as he replied, "I'm glad, kiddo. Now," the eyes that accompanied that smile grew calculating as they turned to Tim. "Who's your friend?"

Tim smiled, exaggeratedly tensing the upper parts of his cheek muscles so that the mask crinkled around his eyes. "I am Alvin Draper, Mr Wayne. Are you enjoying the gallery so far?"

Batman- Mr Wayne laughed and said the perfunctory "Call me Bruce" before affecting an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression. "Yes, all of this is quite...fascinating. Your work, I'm guessing?"

"An excellent deduction on your part. I was just answering your son's questions about the decisions that went into the collection." Tim nodded to Richard, who in turn flashed an expression to Mr Bruce that clearly meant something along the lines of 'we need to talk', who in turn flashed a subtler 'we will' to his son and an 'Oh really, do go on' to Tim himself.

Tim ignored the chain and the urge to add a 'I know you two are talking about me' to turn the chain into a cycle. Bruce cheated by sending messages to two people, so the game would have devolved into a mess of mixed signals.

"Oh yes, while going about Gotham, I occasionally found scenes that the authorities would do well to handle. The good ones, I mean, that do not see crowds like this and others as a money bank and mouth of God."

Bruce's eyes widened a hair and Richard choked back a laugh, although Tim was uncertain as to how his statement was surprising or amusing. Perhaps the exaggeration? He tucked the memory away for further research and smiled as though the responses he got were what he was expecting.

"I saw that you got shots of Batman and Robin. If you were so uncertain of reliability, why not contact them?" Bruce seemed interested, but the set to his jaw indicated he was unhappy about something. Perhaps he wanted people to bring him evidence too?

Tim shrugged. "I already knew which officers were reliable from my research and which ones could take the evidence and do something, and I thought Batman already had enough on his plate."

And Batman's communication system was tough to crack, so he did not want to poke holes in it by accident and face the wrath of the Knight. That would be troublesome.

Richard looked like he had something to say, but Tim spotted a drunk client making passes at one of his displays, so he dismissed himself quickly and salvaged the situation.

The pair disappeared from the spot by the time he got back. The boy frowned for a second before he shrugged. Oh well, better luck next time.

At the end of the three day display, Tim- sorry, Alvin earned approximately $2,500 with recommendations for commissions, so he considered it a job well done.

His piggy bank was replaced with a medium-sized lockbox after a month of such displays, and a year later that was replaced with a debit card linked to a bank from a separate, less exciting city.

He took pictures of G-Robin, occasionally venturing to San Francisco for a self-prescribed vacation when the teen started his own team, then Nightwing and T-Robin when the boy took up the mantle.

He noticed when Jason went missing. He teased out the situation as best a boy with an old computer could do. He began digging when a John Doe with scarring reminiscent of T-Robin's injuries appeared and disappeared.

He designed an encrypted investigation board for his notes. He discovered the League of Shadows. He discovered that the League of Shadows took Jason.

Tim, a young photographer who was never Robin but was still a detective at heart, discovered that he was too deep to back out.