T MINUS THIRTY THREE HOURS

Conner Kent woke with a start as his alarm clock blared. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes. Twelve oh five AM. Why had he thought this was a good idea again?

Oh right. His leather jacket.

His beautiful leather jacket. The one with the patches, and the S on the back. One of the first things he ever owned. He'd bought it with his first paycheck from the department. Probably not what he should have done, he could have paid rent with it he supposed, but buying something for himself—that had been important.

And now Tim fucking Drake was two felonies ahead. If Conner didn't work his ass off to solve his double murder, he'd stay behind.

For once in his life, he really hoped someone committed a crime today.

T MINUS TWENTY NINE HOURS

Okay, so Conner had fallen back asleep in the shower and then stopped at a twenty-four hour Batburger for breakfast, but he still had time. He struggled to get his socks on (of course, he would forget, on the most important day of his life, to do laundry so the socks were novelty ones that had little cartoon sushi and sushi related puns on them), and ate one of his hash browns with his other hand.

Kon barely managed to stumble into the precinct. His belly rumbled and now he was rethinking such a greasy breakfast.

"Hey Kon," someone called from reception. "What're you doing on the night shift?"

"What do you think?" Kon shot back, putting his foot up on a bench to tie his shoe.

"The bet?"

"Fuck yeah."

"Good luck!" They called and Kon hopped passed.

Conner scrambled to take his files out of his briefcase. Technically he wasn't allowed to take them out of the precinct, but no one had to know. Besides, this double hommie was driving him nuts. All of the evidence looked to be murder-suicide (the husband having killed the wife and then himself), but all of their family and friends said that they were happy. Nothing pointed to the fact that they might be having any troubles at all. All the physical evidence spoke to a homicide and a suicide, not two homicides. Conner was stumped.

And, more importantly, he was losing.

Conner climbed into the elevator. He tried to press the button for his floor just as he balanced the files in his other hand. They began slipping. He dove to catch the papers as they cascaded to the floor of the elevator. Conner swore. He knelt down and gathered them up as the elevator dinged.

Conner looked up.

Oh fuck.

Arms crossed, a fucking smirk on his face—Detective Tim Drake stood before him. Tim Drake looked just as polished as he always did. His black hair swept up and away from his face into a small ponytail, bangs brushed away from his eyes. He didn't even look tired, there were no eye-bags despite the early hour. He wore his normal well-tailored pantsuit. A travel mug in his hand.

"Need some help?" Tim asked.

"No!" Conner said and tried not to sound defensive.

Tim chuckled as Conner scooped up his files and then lunged out of the doors of the elevator as they began to close on him.

"How long have you been here?" Conner cried. "It's four AM!"

"I'm aware," Tim said over his shoulder. "You're late."

Ohh… Conner would laugh and laugh and laugh when he won the fucking bet. Tim would rue the day he made fun of Conner's 'cheapest date possible' web search. No way Conner would let Tim get his manicured little hands on Kon's awesome as fuck leather jacket.

Conner walked over to his shared desk, nodding to Roy Harper who worked night shift.

"The bet?" Harper asked.

Conner nodded. "Don't worry, I'll stay out of your way," Conner said. It was only fair, after all, Conner technically wasn't even supposed to be here. He wasn't even pulling over-time. Just seeing the look on Tim Drake's face when he saw the outfit that Conner had picked out for him for the date would be enough. "How's Lian?"

"Asleep." Harper cast a glance at Tim and his desk-buddy: his brother, Dick Grayson. They were chatting amicably. Tim wasn't even working.

"Kick his ass," Harper said dryly before turning back to his own mountain of paperwork.

Conner chugged his boiling coffee, burning his tongue as he did. He stuck his nose in his files and sighed. This was going to be a long day.

T MINUS TWENTY FOUR AND A HALF HOURS

Conner jumped as Cassie slammed three files onto his desk, halfway through a snore. "I'm awake! I'm awake!" Conner shouted, coughing.

Cassie laughed. Conner turned around, looking for the night shift. What was Cassie doing here?

"Where's Harper?" he asked.

"His shift ended a half an hour, not that you would have noticed,"Cassie mused, sitting on the edge of Conner's desk. "You were having a lovely nap. Isn't that what you meant to be doing?"

"Fuck! What time is it?" Conner fumbled through his mess of papers (some with little pools of sleep-drool on them) to find his phone to check the clock.

"Coming in hot!" someone called from behind him. Conner turned in his chair to see Tim coming in with four more perps.

"No, no, no! Aw, come on!" Conner whined.

Tim smiled smugly at Conner as he handed them off to a uniformed officer to book. "And that is four more for me," he said.

He cocked his head, smiling as he looked at Conner.

"What?" It was starting to get creepy.

"Oh nothing, just looking at my prize. Can't wait to burn it," Tim said, grinning wickedly.

Cassie laughed. She saw the glower that Conner gave her and rolled her eyes, unperturbed.

"Hey, Drake! You got any dietary restrictions? Don't want you eating a peanut and dying before your goodnight kiss!" Conner sniped.

"Wordy insult, but I'll let it slide," Tim said as he sauntered to his desk.

"Oh, I'll… wordy your… something," Conner grumbled. He turned to Cassie who was giggling behind her hand. "I hate you."

Cassie snickered. "Yeah, I'd hate me, too."

Cassie pushed herself off of the edge of Conner's desk and walked over to her own. Conner sighed and stuck his nose in the case-file. He was never going to get this done. He needed a break. Conner turned to the new cases that Cassie had brought him.

Lost grandma, stolen VCR, and a purse-snatcher. Not a single felony. Conner rubbed at his tired eyes. He was never, ever going to win this bet. He glanced between his fingers at Tim who had his own steepled, pressing to his lips as he thought. He flicked through a case file, then his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet.

"Captain!" He called, jogging over to solve yet another case, leaving Conner in his dust.

Conner should say his goodbyes to his beautiful leather jacket now, it wouldn't be his for much longer. The fact that Captain John "Red Tape" Smith (better known as Reddy to his unit) had let them do something so unprofessional as a bet on the most felony closures in a year in the first place was shocking, but clearly the old robot had some fun in his bones. Maybe he could get Reddy to make them end it. Conner scoffed at himself, yeah right. He would not bow out. He'd go out fucking fighting.

Conner read through the case files for the lost grandmother. Name, Adelaide Proctor, last seen at Gotham Heights Elders' Home, known to wander off, senile… Hip replacement and cane…

Hip replacement and cane, huh? Well, she couldn't have gotten far. Conner stood and grabbed his keys. He'd need another coffee to keep him going. He called out to Reddy that he was heading out on a case. Maybe he'd just never come back, then Tim couldn't touch his precious jacket.

T MINUS TWENTY HOURS

Conner found Adelaide Proctor stumbling around seven blocks away from her nursing home. Scared, confused, and alone she'd limped into the nearest park where she had a vague memory of sitting and eating lunch with her husband. Conner returned her to her home, and dropped her case into the solved pile.

Next, the stolen VCR. Conner laughed, who the fuck still had one of those?

There wasn't much to do with the purse snatcher, since the victim had already given a description. Uniformed officers were canvasing the area but there was no promise that they'd find the asshole who did it. In robbery cases, the probability of finding the perpetrators was always much lower than, say, a homicide or missing persons' case. But Conner would try.

Conner headed to the address in the police report. He knocked on the door of the apartment and was greeted by a panting woman, who was shifting a robe around her. Her short cut blond hair stuck up oddly.

"Can I help you?" she asked breathlessly.

Didn't take a detective to figure out why, and Conner would be lying if he said that this was the first time he accidentally dropped in on a victim in such a situation.

"I'm from the GCPD, Detective Conner Kent." Conner pulled his badge out from under his shirt and showed it to her. "You're Miss… Robinson?"

"Um, yeah. But my friends call me Holly," Miss Robinson said. She cast a nervous look over her shoulder. To Conner she said, "what can I help you with, Detective Kent?"

"Your VCR was stolen, right?"

"Oh! That! You people don't call?"

"Sorry, Miss," Conner gave her his most charming, apologetic smile. Glancing up at her through his lashes, he laid on the country charm. "I must've forgot."

"It's-it's fine," Miss Robinson mumbled. She tightened her grip around her robe and looked back over her shoulder. "Just-just let me put on some clothes, okay?"

"Of course, ma'am." Conner gave her a small salute as she closed the door.

So it whatever sex Miss Robinson was having wasn't on the level, one way or another. Conner heard hushed swearing and whispers, before the creak and pitter-patter of someone rushing down the fire escape.

Five minutes later, Holly opened her door. Her hair was settled into its bob, and she wore jeans and a baggy, stained t-shirt. "Sorry for the mess."

"My apologies for my intrusion, Miss," Conner said with the drawl of an accent. For some reason people always seemed to forgive any 'rudeness' that might happen when he laid it on thick.

He walked past her into her apartment. The apartment itself was a two bedroom with a kitchenette and a bathroom. Like most Gotham apartments it had only two entrances: the door and the fire escape.

Conner glanced down at the lock on the door (lock, chain lock, and two deadbolts). He looked up at Miss Robinson, who flushed.

"Gotham, you know?" She said with a shrug. "Can't be too careful."

Conner looked down with faux-bashfulness. "If you say so, Miss."

"You're not from Gotham?" Miss Robinson asked while he examined the doorjamb. No splintering, so either they picked the locks or came in from the fire escape.

"No, Miss, came to the big city with high hopes. Smallville, where I'm from, was all Big Fish, Little Pond, you know? Wanted to try my luck."

Not strictly true. Conner had lived plenty of places before Smallville—Metropolis, for example, and Hawaii—but it helped sell the goofy country-boy persona. When someone had someone else sneaking out their back window when a cop came by, Conner found it easier to get information by playing the bumpkin.

Miss Robinson scoffed. "Why would anyone want to try their luck here?"

Conner scratched at the back of his neck. "Well, now, Miss. A big city is a big city."

"Yeah," Miss Robinson laughed, "clearly you've never been to Metropolis."

Conner had, in fact, been to Metropolis, but he didn't say that, instead he pretended to focus on the door. Miss Robinson kept looking around her bedroom. Clothes were strewn everywhere, which confirmed the sex assumption. But sex was neither illegal, nor (in Gotham) something to be ashamed of. So why had the partner run?

Conner, of course, knew the two reasons why someone would run when a cop showed up during sex, but he pretended he didn't know or notice the mess. Might be something he could use later to catch her off guard.

Conner walked around the apartment, giving a show of being a little lost.

"Where was the VCR?" he asked.

"Over here," Miss Robinson said. She nudged him towards the second room where a small flat screen sat on a table. Under it was a small shelf for devices. A cable box was plugged in, but that was it. No DVD player…

Having a DVD player in this day and age was odd, but not having one and still having a VCR was even odder.

"Where do you keep your movies?" Conner asked. He swiped a finger over the cable box and came away dusty. He frowned and took out his phone for a flashlight, looking for the dust imprint of the VCR.

"My what?"

"Your movies. You have a VCR, you must have movies, right? What else do you use it for?"

There a dust imprint was, but when he scooted back from the table he couldn't find neither an outlet for where the VCR would have been plugged in, nor the power cord. Why would someone have a VCR but no way to turn it on? He glanced at the coffee table behind him. Only one remote.

"Movies. Right. I don't have them… here," Miss Robinson began. "I um, I have the VCR, or I did, and my friend comes over and we watch her movies."

Conner could not have believed that if he tried.

"What?" Miss Robinson demanded, arms crossed. "Are you going to help, or what?"

Conner shook his head to clear it. "Right, so you said in your statement that you just came home and the VCR was missing, right?"

"Uh huh."

"No sign of forced entry."

"No."

"And only the VCR."

"Yes. Why?"

Because VCR isn't worth shit anymore, and this flat screen would get a better deal at a pawn shop than one. So what aren't you telling me, Miss Robinson?

But what Conner said was, "the window to your fire escape is in your room, right?"

"Yeah, but-Hey! Don't go-!" Conner was already pushing into her room. Strewn across the bed were a multitude of sex toys and enhancers.

"Sorry, Miss," Conner said, completely unsurprised. "Nothing to be ashamed about."

Conner made a show of ignoring the things littered across the room and instead went for the window. Miss Robinson slipped over to her bedside table behind him, and he pretended not to notice the stack of cash that had been hastily placed there and how she shoved it into her back pocket. That answered that.

He bent down, checking the ledge for any sign of forced entry. The barest of scratches on the bottom frame.

"This unlocked all the time?" Conner asked.

Miss Robinson shook her head.

"Usually it's locked."

Conner nodded. He lifted the window. Easy to lift, no creaking or resistance. He slipped onto the fire escape and blew at the dust that gathered on the windowsill.

There! Scratch marks from a lever of some type. A little less than an inch in width… probably a crowbar. He checked the slit between the two window frames where the lock was, feeling for any nicks. Yep. Used a thin wire to slide open the lock, and then a crowbar to pry the window open. A lot of work for a VCR.

"Miss Robinson, I can't help you if you don't tell me the truth."

"What do you mean?" Miss Robinson shifted, arms crossed over her chest.

"Forgive my presumption, Ma'am, but that VCR isn't a real VCR, is it?"

Miss Robinson swallowed thickly, turning so that she couldn't make eye contract with Conner. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Ma'am, as long as what's in that VCR isn't contraband, I don't care. But if I can't figure out why someone would steal a VCR when there's a perfectly good TV in the other room, then I might not be able to get it back. And after all of this," Conner waved a hand vaguely, "I assume you do want it back."

Miss Robinson chewed on her lip.

"Look, it's-. I have a… rainy day fund in that VCR. I just would like it back."

There we go.

"Of course, Miss. Did anyone know about that rainy day fund?"

"No!"

"Really? You didn't maybe take out the VCR once or twice? Count the money? Maybe move it in here to see?" Conner asked, one eyebrow raised.

Miss Robinson's jaw dropped. "How-?"

Conner leaned into her apartment. He couldn't see the second room from here. So either she told someone about it or brought the device into her bedroom occasionally.

"There's a dust imprint by the TV table so it was clearly kept there at some point, but no cords to plug it in. Either the thief also took the cords, which, honestly, is way too much work if they aren't going to take the TV either or it never had any. Either you don't plug it in because you bought the VCR without it, or because you move it often enough that plugging in and unplugging the cord is getting annoying. Maybe even both."

Miss Robinson's jaw snapped back up and she tensed.

"You're not a stupid as you look, Detective Kent."

Conner gave her a winning smile.

"Gosh dang, Miss!" he said, exaggerating his Smallville accent, "you city folks sure do say the nicest things!"

Miss Robinson sat on the edge of her bed and Conner crawled back through the window. He sat next to her, careful not to touch any of the toys that littered the room—didn't know where they had been.

"Now, Miss Robinson, you want to tell me what's really happening?"

Miss Robinson shot a nervous look at the state of the room and then back to Conner. So she didn't want to tell him that she was a sex worker. That was fine.

"Let me see if I can use my deductive skills, huh? You have a… rainy day fund," Conner gave enough emphasis on the words that she had to understand that he knew what it really was, "and perhaps you had… a gentleman caller over. Maybe he saw you make a little… donation to the fund. Maybe he wasn't happy with his… little guy. Wanted to take some of that money?"

Miss Robinson couldn't make eye contact with him. "Maybe."

"Do you happen to have any idea who it could be?"

Miss Robinson shook her head.

"Do you keep a…" he couldn't say 'list of transactions'… "diary? Maybe? Of gentlemen callers?"

She scowled at him, tightening her grip on her arms.

"No."

"Miss Robinson, if I don't have any idea who could have taken it, I probably won't be able to get it back. Especially since this person doesn't want to actually pawn the VCR. VCRs are practically useless these days."

Miss Robinson sighed. "Just… one moment." She knelt by her bed and patted around under it for something. Huh, and Conner had thought that only men hid things under their beds.

Finally Miss Robinson came back up with a small notebook. It was a little girl's diary: pink, fuzzy, complete with a flimsy, little lock on the outside. She fished a key out from inside her pillowcase and unlocked it.

"I'd like to take pictures of the entries between a month before the robbery until the day of, if that's alright," Conner said.

"Whatever," Miss Robinson said in defeat. She turned to the pages that Conner needed and handed the log to him before flopping back against her bed.

Conner took pictures. The diary seemed to be in a code. No one had names, instead just nicknames. Next to them was a dollar amount, and a date and time period. Fifteen minutes? Conner tried not to laugh. It came out as a strangled cough.

"I'll need your help to identify these people. With their, you know, real names."

"Fine."

As Conner read off the list, making notes in his phone as she decoded her ledger for him, he let himself study the room once more. There were no pictures around here. Probably a safety thing. He couldn't imagine how Miss Robinson ever felt truly safe with sex-crazed men who knew her home address.

"If you don't mind me asking," Conner said as he finished with the list, "how do you keep yourself safe here?"

Miss Robinson pulled something out from under her pillow and showed it to him. A gun.

"Do you know how to use that?"

"Yes, and it's registered, thank you very much," Miss Robinson said.

Hm… Something stirred in Conner's mind that he couldn't fully grasp. This whole situation gave him a sense of deja-vu but he'd certainly never been in a sex worker's apartment before as she showed him her gun (metaphorically or otherwise).

"If I had been here when the asshole who robbed me had, trust me, he wouldn't have left standing." Miss Robinson's tone was dark, but Conner understood. If he too, was a single sex worker in downtown Gotham, he'd also be deadly serious about his safety.

"I suggest you get a better lock for that window, Miss Robinson. I'll follow up on these leads and call you when there's any news," Conner said. He gave her a small salute, and laid down the accent. "Have a nice day, Ma'am."

Miss Robinson raised an eyebrow at him. Conner winked and let himself out.

Conner sighed and checked the time. Great. Already three, the day was just wasting away, and he still hadn't a single other felony to solve.

Tim was going to win.

Maybe Conner should go stop by the double homicide's apartment. It wouldn't be a crime scene much longer. It had taken all of his connections to keep the case open, since the DA still wasn't convinced there was a case there. Conner was sure though that the husband hadn't done it.

For one thing, the husband was left handed, and the gun had been put in his right hand. Secondly, everything seemed fine with the two of them. Except for some rocky financials, the couple seemed happy. The wife was a teacher, and the husband had taken up two jobs, both cleaning and his usual carpentry. Financial troubles indicated that if one of them died it would be premeditated, not a murder-suicide. Those tended to be crimes of passion, and either way with both of them dead next of kin collected the insurance payouts, not either of the people with financial troubles.

Conner sighed. Their apartment wasn't far away, plus it was on the way back to the precinct. No reason not to drop by on a Hail Mary before he lost this bet. Even if he did find the killer that would only be one or two felons at most, nowhere near enough to get him to win.

Goodbye, my dear leather jacket, he thought as he drove over. He slid off his bike and locked it up. You served me well. I'll never forget you.

Conner let himself into the crime scene. All the evidence had been taken already.

The two of them had been in trouble, but had seemed to have a happy life. Conner scanned the counters where he saw framed photos of the victims. Both of them were smiling. The gun had been registered to the husband, further proof of an open and shut case. They'd had a healthy sex life if the box of accessories under their bed had-

Under their bed… Financial troubles.

Conner bee-lined for the bed. He knelt by it. No one had taken any of the things from under there because they hadn't seemed to be evidence. Conner pulled latex gloves on and pulled out the tub tucked under there. There was certainly a variety here… Conner had made a tasteless joke at Cassie when they'd first done a sweep of the apartment about the pure quantity. He'd cited this as the major reason he didn't believe that they could have killed one another, anyone this happy couldn't possibly kill anyone. But as he kept looking… some of the toys looked familiar.

Holly Robinson had owned some of the same ones.

Conner shoved the box aside and laid down on the floor of the room to get better access to the space under the bed. But he still couldn't feel anything. Conner scowled and got up, brushing himself off. He went to the end of the bed and lifted it up, hearing it screech as he moved it. Conner winced. He hadn't meant to do that.

With the bed now out of the way he took out his flashlight, looking for anything that could be in an indicator for a hiding space. Nestled between the wall, the side table and where the head of the bed would have been was a small indent on the wooden floor. Conner put his phone under his chin as he pried up the wooden board. In surprise at his find he dropped the phone on his hand and yelped.

Conner grinned as he pulled bundles of crumbled bills out from the hiding place. Gotcha.

T MINUS SIXTEEN HOURS

[New Message from Conner Kent]

Tim pulled out his phone to see the text from Kon. He leaned back in his chair, taking a reassuring glance at the scoreboard that hung over the Sarge's desk.

TIM: 89

KON: 80

Tim had a comfortable lead in the race. They only had one more hour left of their shift, but Tim had an electricity burning under his skin. As much as he hated to admit it, Conner was a good detective, and he could just have something up his sleeve. Try to make Tim comfortable before scooping him. Even if he did though, summoning over nine felons out of thin air would be a feat, even for The Superboy. Just for that Tim might concede. But Tim still felt on edge. He couldn't wait for nine AM tomorrow. Finally, this craziness would be over.

And Tim would own Conner's beloved leather jacket. Tim grinned, glancing down at the text.

It was a single emoji: a bunny face.

Tim frowned. What could that possibly mean?

"Hey, Cassie?" Tim called.

"What?" Cassie asked.

She balled up some scrap paper and lined up her shot for the recycling bin next to Greta's desk.

"What do you think this means?" Tim asked, waving her over.

Cassie stood and peered over his shoulder at the text.

"A bunny?"

"Is it a code?"

"Who knows dude, it's Kon, it could be a lunch order."

But something about the cryptic message made Tim frown.

"Wait!" Lunch order! "What if it isn't a bunny?"

"What else could it be?"

Tim gave Cassie a curious look.

"A… rabbit?"

Cassie raised her brows.

"Does Kon still have that cereal box in his desk?" Tim asked.

Cassie put up her hands. "Oh no! You do that. No way I'm going through his disgusting desk."

Tim sighed and walked over to Kon's area. He warily pulled open drawers. Kon tended to keep things in his desk that might accidentally explode (like pranks or distended bottles of Redi-Whip) or were moving when they shouldn't be. He couldn't smell anything funky, but that didn't mean anything.

Tim found the cereal box he was looking for and swore under his breath.

Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids.

Kon definitely had something up his sleeve. Tim needed a bigger lead. But all of his remaining cases were misdemeanors, and they didn't count toward the bet.

Tim jogged over to Greta's desk, giving her a winning smile.

"Hey Greta!"

Greta smiled at him, like she always did when he came over, but then frowned. He wasn't usually that chipper. She was immediately suspicious. Damn it Tim, be cool.

"Hi, Tim…" she said carefully, "what's up?"

"You don't happen to have any… oh, I don't know, felonies that you can't solve, do you?"

"Detective Drake!" Tim jumped as Reddy's voice rang out from his office.

"Yes, sir?"

The captain leaned across his doorjamb, eyes narrow.

"You aren't taking on any more cases now, are you?"

"Of course not, sir!"

Frack!

"Because, last I checked, you have seven open cases already."

Tim kept his face neutral.

"Of course! I was just wondering if Detective Hayes over here had any other cases she might want to trade? My misdemeanors are all almost solved anyway and-"

Reddy wasn't fooled. "If they're so easy to solve, then perhaps you should solve them. You have almost forty-five minutes until your shift ends." Truly living up to his nickname. All red tape.

"Of course, sir," Tim said. Reddy gave him a knowing look but turned back into his office. Tim bent down next to Greta. "Please, Greta!"

"No! You heard the Captain, you already have cases."

"But they're not felonies!"

"So? You're going to win," Greta nodded to the scoreboard over Sargent Carr's desk. "What's it matter?"

"Kon's planning something, I'm sure of it," Tim said.

"Kon's planning what?" Bart asked, skidding around to them in his swivel chair.

"He has something up his sleeve," Tim said, "I'm sure of it. And I cannot lose this bet. Please, Greta?"

"Hey! Why aren't you asking me?" Bart pouted. "I have felonies!"

"Yes, but your notes are impossible to read. Greta's aren't, so I'll be able to finish them up much quicker. Cassie won't let me take any of hers at all. Please, Greta?"

"You heard the Captain," Cassie said loudly, leaning over Tim's shoulder. "Don't help him."

Tim scowled at her. Completely unhelpful.

"You just want to see me lose," Tim accused.

Cassie laughed.

"Hell yeah, I do. Don't you?" she asked Greta. Greta actually looked like she was taking some time to mull that over. No! "You know Kon has some horrible torture planned for the date. Plus what he'll force you to wear!"

"Shut up!" Tim hissed.

Greta leaned back in her chair, amused. "Hmmm… I don't know Tim… Cassie makes a good point."

"No, please Greta!"

"What'll you give her?" Cassie asked.

"Yeah! What'll you give her?" Bart agreed, grinning.

Tim leveled them both with a glare.

"You suck."

"Now, now, Tim, don't you want a felony so you can win this bet?" Cassie tisked. "I wouldn't be mean to the people who hold your dignity in their hands."

"I'll do all your paperwork for the rest of the week," Tim offered Greta. He turned on the puppy-dog eyes he knew Greta couldn't resist. "Please, Greta?"

He was sure that behind him Cassie was moving but when he glanced over his shoulder at her she was pretending to whistle, looking elsewhere. Tim narrowed his eyes at her.

"Hmm… I don't know, Tim. Reddy's orders were pretty clear..." Greta said, turning back to her work.

"Two weeks!"

Cassie was moving again and Tim whirled on her only to miss the movement. When he turned back Greta was sighing exaggeratedly.

"Three weeks! Please, please don't make me go on this date."

"I don't know, Tim," Cassie teased, "I'm sure Kon's a very conscientious lover. A great kisser too, you sure you don't want to go on this date? Maybe wear something a little frisky, more of a chance he'll-"

"A month!" Tim cried to shut Cassie up. Bart was beside himself in giggles and even Greta was trying hard to hold the laughter in. "I'll do your paperwork for a month!"

In the reflection of Greta's computer screen he saw Cassie give her a thumbs up. Bastard, Cassie was helping Greta drive the price up! But Tim had already offered it, he couldn't take it back now.

Greta held out her hand. Tim surged forward and took it. (Mainly because he knew that if Greta kept refusing he'd lose his underpants to her, not to go on this date.)

"Deal," Greta said. She handed over the case-file. "But you can't tell Reddy I gave it to you."

"Thank you, Greta." Tim turned on Bart and Cassie who were still laughing. "You two on the other hand are vile and no longer my friends."

"Aw, you love us," Cassie said, pressing a kiss to Tim's temple.

Tim ignored her and sunk himself into his new case. If he could crack this one before nine tomorrow, he'd be ten up from Conner. He'd like to see Kon try and beat that.

Oh, he was going to burn that leather jacket and he was going to make Kon watch.

T MINUS THREE HOURS

[New Message from Conner Kent]

:turtle emoji:

Tim ignored the text and focused back on his own case.

"Got it!" Tim cried, jumping up from his desk. Of course! The husband did it. Tim checked his watch. If he ran, he could still track the husband down, arrest him, and get him to booking before the bet was up. Take that Conner Kent!

"Good luck, Drake," Sargent Donna Troy called from her desk as he rushed past her. Night-shifters knew about the bet, probably everyone in the whole precinct did. Tim knew there was even a betting pool on who would win.

It took Tim an hour to track down the husband. He was on his way to work in the early morning, the asshole was going on like he hadn't killed his wife. Tim called out his name, jogging over to him. Feigning innocence, the husband stopped so Tim could speak to him.

Tim held out his cuffs. He was halfway through "-you are under arres-" when the husband bolted. Tim swore under his breath and took off after him. He hated when they ran.

The husband took him on a chase, through the subway station and onto a train. Then back off of the train, up and down some escalators, across the street and over to another subway station. Tim caught him as he slid through the crowd onto the nearest train platform.

Tim hopped the turn-stalls, and tackled him. The two of them went sprawling, people took out their phones to video the arrest.

"-you are under arrest for the murder of your wife," Tim said breathlessly. After reading the husband his Miranda Rights he turned to one of the filming bystanders. "Hey, what time is it?"

The woman blanched. "Uh, quarter after eight."

Frick, Tim would have to use his siren to make it back to the precinct in time.

"Come on! Move it!" Tim snarled at the murderer, a little more harshly than intended. He was exhausted from two sleepless nights. He shoved the murderer into the back of his black and white and hit the gas.

Of course, then, main street was backed up. Tim skidded around construction and bikers on side streets as he floored it to the precinct.

"Damn, bro," the murderer in his back seat grumbled as he was jerked back and forth. Tim ignored him. "What? Is your water breaking?"

Something like that.

He slammed on the breaks as they made it to the station. The car was barely stopped before he was on his feet, dragging the murderer out and to the door.

"Come on, I don't have all day."

"Hey, Drake!" A receptionist called as he ran passed. He didn't have time for more than a 'hi,' back.

"Dude, what is your problem?" the murderer asked.

"Me? I don't have a problem. I didn't kill someone!" Tim snapped at him.

He made it to the elevator and swore. There was a line.

The elevator dinged and out came some of his coworkers.

"Hey, Drake!" Eddie called, waving. "You got another one? Better hurry, you only have fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes? Until what?" the murderer asked. Tim ignored him.

"Stairs, we're going up the stairs. Come on! Go, go, go!" He said, shoving the perp.

"I have asthma, dude!"

"You murdered your wife! I don't really care," Tim said.

"She deserved it!" he cried.

"Cool motive. Still murder."

Tim scowled as the murderer huffed and puffed up the stairs. Tim didn't have time for this. He grabbed the murderer in a fireman's hold and heaved up onto his shoulders (which elicited a lot of complaining from the murderer, but again, Tim didn't give a shit). Tim raced up the stairs.

He still needed to get him to booking. If they didn't start processing him, the arrest didn't count. Tim made it through the door to his floor, keeping the wiggling perp over his shoulders. It would just be easier this way.

On his way up coworkers began cheering him on. Shouting at him to 'go, go, go!' Tim ignored them, too.

"Max de Winter, killed his wife," Tim said, pointing to his perp.

Anita tried not to burst into laughter at her desk.

"Okay," she said, her voice wavering under the stress it took not to giggle. "Your signature?"

Tim took the pen and signed shakily. He done it!

"Put him in holding cell four while we finish processing," Anita told him.

He gave her a little wobbily salute and dropped de Winter who landed flat on his ass in the hallway. Tim dragged him up and pushed him through the door.

Five minutes to spare.

"There! One more!" He gasped. "Bart, can you take him to holding cell four?"

Bart did and Tim whirled on Conner who sat at his desk, watching the spectacle, amusement written all over his face.

"I beat you and with a ten perp buffer! Take that!" Tim shoved a finger at Conner's grinning face.

Wait, grinning.

Why was he grinning?

"Yes, you did," Conner said, still leaning back in his chair. Hands clasped over his belly.

"Why are you not upset?"

"You're a detective," Conner said, grinning. "You figure it out."

"No. No, no, no, no-"

Conner stretched lazily. "You know that double homicide I was working on? Turns out, it wasn't a murder-suicide, but rather a double murder set up to look like one."

"But that's still only one killer!" Tim cried. "That's not enough to win!"

"No, it isn't. But the wife was a sex worker, and she had a long list of clients. By the time I gave their names to Vice, well..."

"No, no, no," Tim collapsed against the desk, watching in horror as Conner called: "Bring in the Johns!"

"But prostitution isn't a felony!"

"Not on the first offense."

Tim watched as unis paraded the men through to the holding cell, one, two, three, four, five… wait there were only eight here. Plus nine being the murderer…

"You're two short!" Tim said, flinging a finger at Kon. "I still win!"

Conner looked down, checking his phone.

"Thirty seconds left on the clock, and what will our hero do? Is he defeated?" He spoke in an annoying announcer's voice as he gloated. "Silly Tim," he tweaked Tim's cheek and Tim felt, that in that moment, he totally understood what his murderer had said. Kon did deserve it. "Men aren't the only ones who pay for sex with women."

Kon grinned. He cupped his hands around his mouth. No, this couldn't be happening! Tim had a ten perp lead! This was impossible! Just his freaking luck, of freaking course Kon would be able to pull this off!

"Bring in the Janes!" He shouted and three women were paraded in and locked up.

"Accept your fate, Drake," Kon said.

No. No way. Tim would never!

Conner glanced down at his phone again.

"Ten, nine," the whole bullpen counted along with Kon. No, no, no, no! It wasn't fair! It so wasn't fair!

"Three, two, one!"

Music began blaring. Confetti burst from a canon at Tim as the whole bullpen began celebrating. A large banner that Bart had clearly made unfurled in front of Tim. In huge glittery letters it said KON WINS!

This couldn't be happening, Tim thought numbly. This was a bad dream. Any moment now his alarm would go off and he's awaken safe in his bed in a world where he wasn't doomed to go on a date with Conner freaking Kent!

Conner knelt down on one knee before them as their friends cheered Tim on to his fate and music blared around them. He took out a ring pop from his pocket.

"Detective Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, will you go on the worst date ever with me? You have to say yes."

Tim swallowed and sighed.

"Yes," he gritted out through his teeth.

Conner grinned and picked Tim up, swinging him around before turning to their horrible friends.

"He said yes!"