Omar Comin'
Title: Omar Comin'
Characters: Damian, Tim
Summary: Damian has seen (and made!) Tim Drake furious before. But there's rage, and then there's nerd rage.
Genre: Gen.
Warnings: None.
Words: 2,351
Notes: No-one except me and like 3 hipster nerds will care about this, and I'm okay with that. XD
In hindsight, Damian isn't sure how he got entangled in Drake's web; it happens very suddenly and dramatically.
It happens while they're angrily circling each other down in the Cave, arguing about the right approach to a criminal suspect, which isn't out of the ordinary in any way. They never agree about the approach to anything, be it case work or the correct way to eat a cookie. It's late, and they both have consumed several sugar-containing beverages, and tensions run high. Drake has already started making what Damian thinks are furious rap gestures in his direction, which is always a good indicator that his reserved demeanor is about to fall apart.
"Look, Damian," he lectures in that grating voice as if he's teaching kindergarten, "All I'm saying is, we have to be Omar Little-levels of sneaky to corner this guy - "
Damian cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and a sneers, "Tt, I don't care how your stupid friend would do it, Drake," (which, in Damian's world, is a perfectly measured response) at which point all color leaves Drake's pointy little face, and things take a strange turn.
"No - I mean - " He stammers, blinking, "Omar. But … but Omar."
And normally, Damian would enjoy watching him mumble incoherent nonsense in a disconcerted state. But he gets that feeling again like he's walked right into one of those references, those cultural references the others always trade around that he should understand but doesn't. It's one of his least favorite emotions to experience.
His eyes narrow dangerously, to which Drake responds with a look of shock, bewilderment and (and that's the worst part) pity, and it really gets to him.
"The … the iconic character from David Simon's ground-breaking investigative television series," Drake babbles on, incredulously, "About the interdependency between crime, law enforcement, poverty, and society and oh god you haven't seen The Wire," his eyes grow large as the apparently horrible realization dawns on him, "You. Haven't Seen. The Wire."
Damian doesn't understand. Drake usually seems to like it when he can lord some little snippet of knowledge over the younger boy, no matter how insignificant it is, but right now, he looks devastated.
He koffs. "So?"
It's weak.
He crosses his arms over his chest, wishing Drake's wide-eyed amazement wouldn't make him feel so insecure. He doesn't like not knowing things. It almost makes him want to lie about having seen it, which is pathetic. And, knowing Drake, he'd probably start quizzing him about the plot. And it's too late to lie, anyway.
The next moment, he flinches and nearly sucker-punches Red Robin out of habit, when the older boy grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, a fervent look in his eyes. But it's not a pretext to a physical altercation, more a gesture as if they're both in a dramatic stageplay, only Drake seems very serious about it all.
"Boy," he utters, "What are you doing with your life?!"
Okay, now it's getting offensive.
"Fighting crime," Damian hisses in his face.
Drake frowns at him. "That's what the show is about!" He then gasps, exasperated, as if Damian's continued ignorance somehow affects him personally.
"How could you let this happen?!" He complains to Damian's father, who's passing through with a mug of coffee. The Dark Knight gives them both a distracted, mystified look, then returns to his work station.
"Knock it off, Drake!" Damian twists out of his grip. "I don't care, I have no time for your silly television, it means nothing to me!"
That's not true. He's been catching up, in secret. He's so sick of not being able to follow a simple conversation between Nightwing and Batgirl, or Red Robin and anyone, about phasers or time-traveling Doctors or cannoli or the Fonz, and not knowing who Marcia is. But he has a lot of case work and training and homework, and it's a lot of ground to cover. He's only made it to the 60's so far, he's doing classic Star Trek and The Avengers at the moment, and debating on whether or not to pass on The Brady Bunch. Progress has been frustratingly slow.
But Drake doesn't need to know that.
He's still giving him that look.
"Seriously, you've never heard of it." There's no malice in his voice, no gloating, only the same note of disbelieving compassion. "Never, I don't know, read about it, saw a trailer, saw a gif pop up on Tumblr - "
"What's Tumblr?"
" - okay, that's it - " Drake sighs and throws his hands up. "What are you doing on Friday?" His voice is almost stern.
Damian's eyes fly wide open. "That's none of your concern - "
"Nothing, then. Great." Drake whips out his cellphone and busily types into his calendar, all business. There's no trace of the hostility and exasperation he usually shows when they're dealing with each other as he announces, "I'll be coming by with my DVD box set on Friday. Get ready. It's going to be a long night."
"Drake!" He's mortified. Both by having his spare time get co-opted like this and by Drake's sudden, bizarre, unfathomable desire to spend it with him. "I don't want to hang out with you, I can't stand you!" He pauses. "You can't stand me," he points out for good measure.
Drake doesn't seem bothered by that in the slightest.
"Damian, listen," he says kindly, putting away his phone, "I don't want to hang out with you, either. Believe me. There's forty to fifty things I would rather do, and that's off the top of my head, but this."
He touches him again, it's outrageous. This time, it's a hand on his shoulder. It's horribly patronizing, and Damian wants to toss him across the room. But that would be unwarranted because Drake isn't being nearly hostile enough, and his father's watching.
"This is bigger than you and me. This is bigger than both of us. Regardless of my personal feelings, I have to do this. It is my duty as both a connoisseur of Golden Age quality television and as someone who is … acquainted with you." He makes a meaningful pause. "8 pm sound good?"
"Whatever," Damian's mouth mumbles, while his mind inquires, What?! "Maybe I'll be there."
"You better be!" Drake barks at him, then collects himself. "I'm sorry," he then says, which he's never said to Damian before. "I can't make you, of course, but I implore you, do yourself a favor, and be there. Oh, and one last thing." Now he definitely sounds stern. Like an older brother, even. "No looking up spoilers on Wikipedia! With shows like these, you know, they have to be experienced. You feel me?"
"Don't talk to me like that," Damian snaps, now full-on disturbed.
And then, Drake smiles at him. "Then we're clear. Good."
After that, he drops it for the time being, and they return to bickering until Father has to step in to separate them by their capes. But when Drake finally packs up and leaves, in the early hours of morning, Damian hears him muttering "Hasn't seen The Wire," under his breath, as if he still couldn't fathom it.
The days until Friday pass by without event, perhaps apart from the dramatic arrest of a cackling Firefly on a burning elementary school playground on Thursday night, and the 10 new Kung Fu throws he masters. Nothing to really distract him from his looming date with Tim Drake.
He calls up Grayson to complain about Drake's insolence of inviting himself to his home, but all he says is, "Oh man, you haven't seen The Wire?!"
Damian hangs up while Grayson is still laughing.
At one point, he even has to send Drake a message, from his own phone, telling him he needn't bring his DVDs, because it turns out that his father has the Blu Ray collector's edition.
"Ooh, The Wire!" His father enthuses when he asks him about it. "Excellent show. You've seen it?"
"Yes," Damian replies at once.
His father is busy in his study, but he puts down his pen, and looks up at his son, and asks, "Who was your favorite character?"
It's incredible. He never lets people linger in the doorframe of his home office for this long.
"Um," Damian makes. "O-Omar?"
"Mine is Lester Freamon," his father confides, folding his hands. He's even smiling.
"I like him, too." Damian hurries to say. "He's great."
"But Omar is an interesting choice. Come here, sit down. Now, the choices that Omar makes in the story …"
And then he talks to Damian about it for fifteen minutes. And Damian doesn't really understand any of it, and has to bluff his way around some tough corners. But it's still some father-son-time well spent, he feels.
And somehow, he has Tim Drake to thank for that.
That part, he loathes.
Then Friday night comes, and with it Drake, cradling a tiny bowl in his hands and looking positively insane with eagerness.
"I made us low-fat herb dip," he announces.
"Why."
"Because it's delicious. Here, take this." He pushes the dip into Damian's hands, then unbuttons his coat. "Did you prep the TV room?" He inquires, as if they're getting ready for delicate heart surgery.
"We can't go in there!" Damian slides in front him before he can progress any further, still awkwardly holding the bowl of white goo, "My father - he's … entertaining …"
"Got it. No further explanation necessary." Drake's lips are twitching and Damian remembers that he, too, knows what date nights in the Wayne house were like. But then, he says, "Your room then."
It gives them both pause, and they stare at each other while it sinks in how strange this is.
Damian's room is his kingdom, his territory, stacked with his trophies and his books and his weapons collection. He barely lets Pennyworth in with a vacuum cleaner, the idea of Tim Drake sitting down on his couch with nachos and a bowl of dip is outlandish, and they both know it.
It's probably not a good idea for the two of them to gather in a room that contains so many knives.
The older boy clears his throat. "I mean," he says, "There's probably a dozen rooms with TVs in the Manor, and there's plenty more down in the Cave, we could …"
It's actually very thoughtful of him to try and respect Damian's privacy, Damian knows, and he resents it.
"But mine is the best after the one in Father's room," he promptly insists. "My TV, I mean. Whatever this Wire is, I will not be watching it on a sub-standard screen." He turns around and starts the climb up the stairs. "Come."
After a second, he can feel Drake following him.
Up in his room, it's not as weird as he would have expected, because his - he should probably call him "guest" by this point - seems busy, leaving no room for awkward pauses and uncomfortable looks. Drake examines his TV set-up and voices his approval, to which Damian utters an indignant "Tt" (what did Drake expect?), then starts producing things from his backpack, cluttering up Damian's coffee table in the process.
"We'll be doing the long haul tonight, season one, maybe half of season two, maybe more, so we'll definitely be needing some sustenance," he explains, decorating the table with various snacks, "And I thought it'd be rude to bother Alfred all the time - you like these, right?" He holds up a few cans of lemonade.
Damian blinks. "I … I do."
Why does Drake know that?
The older boy nods, and places them on the table with the rest of the refreshments. Damian has already secured the Blu Rays from his father's shelf. The last thing Drake pulls out is his notebook.
"Hope you don't mind," he says, "I'll be taking notes for my The Wire re-watch. Maybe share a few observations online."
Dork.
"I don't care what you do, Drake."
"Great. Now, Damian," Drake makes for a vaguely amusing sight as he looks up to him, all excited, still on his knees next to the coffee table, "I won't lie, it's a show that's a little hard to get into, there's no real exposition and the politics are very intricate, so you may have to give it a couple episodes …"
"Don't insult me," Damian hisses. "I'm my mother's son. She flew in real-life diplomats and dictators to teach me. I understand intricate politics."
Drake gives no indication of being impressed, still completely focused on their presumably magical TV experience. "You'll have no problem following the plot, then," he merrily concludes, sitting down on the couch across the screen.
"If you do have problems, though," he adds with a sly grin, as Damian tentatively gets down next to him, "Don't hesitate to ask!"
Damian snarls and tears the remote out of his hand, and pushes 'Play'.
And it's good.
It's dark and it's poetic, it's about murder and remorse and politics, and he has no trouble getting into it at all. It makes him feel intrigue and compassion and things. And after a while, he forgets that it's Drake who's dragged him into this, and he doesn't mind it when their hands touch as they reach into the bag of nachos at the same time. And when Drake takes out a peanut butter candy bar, breaks it in half an offers one half to him, he accepts it without even taking his eyes off the screen.
And then, at one point, when that one drug dealer dies, he feels a single, manly tear run down his cheek, and Drake doesn't even mock him.
"I know, man," he says softly instead, rustling around with a candy wrapper in the dark, "I know. It's Adriana La Cerva all over again."
"Who …" His voice is a little choked. He clears his throat. "Who is that?"
Tim Drake makes eyes at him, puts his notebook down and his hands up.
"Whoa wait, hold up," he says, "You haven't seen The Sopranos?!"
Characters: Damian, Tim
Summary: Damian has seen (and made!) Tim Drake furious before. But there's rage, and then there's nerd rage.
Genre: Gen.
Warnings: None.
Words: 2,351
Notes: No-one except me and like 3 hipster nerds will care about this, and I'm okay with that. XD
In hindsight, Damian isn't sure how he got entangled in Drake's web; it happens very suddenly and dramatically.
It happens while they're angrily circling each other down in the Cave, arguing about the right approach to a criminal suspect, which isn't out of the ordinary in any way. They never agree about the approach to anything, be it case work or the correct way to eat a cookie. It's late, and they both have consumed several sugar-containing beverages, and tensions run high. Drake has already started making what Damian thinks are furious rap gestures in his direction, which is always a good indicator that his reserved demeanor is about to fall apart.
"Look, Damian," he lectures in that grating voice as if he's teaching kindergarten, "All I'm saying is, we have to be Omar Little-levels of sneaky to corner this guy - "
Damian cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and a sneers, "Tt, I don't care how your stupid friend would do it, Drake," (which, in Damian's world, is a perfectly measured response) at which point all color leaves Drake's pointy little face, and things take a strange turn.
"No - I mean - " He stammers, blinking, "Omar. But … but Omar."
And normally, Damian would enjoy watching him mumble incoherent nonsense in a disconcerted state. But he gets that feeling again like he's walked right into one of those references, those cultural references the others always trade around that he should understand but doesn't. It's one of his least favorite emotions to experience.
His eyes narrow dangerously, to which Drake responds with a look of shock, bewilderment and (and that's the worst part) pity, and it really gets to him.
"The … the iconic character from David Simon's ground-breaking investigative television series," Drake babbles on, incredulously, "About the interdependency between crime, law enforcement, poverty, and society and oh god you haven't seen The Wire," his eyes grow large as the apparently horrible realization dawns on him, "You. Haven't Seen. The Wire."
Damian doesn't understand. Drake usually seems to like it when he can lord some little snippet of knowledge over the younger boy, no matter how insignificant it is, but right now, he looks devastated.
He koffs. "So?"
It's weak.
He crosses his arms over his chest, wishing Drake's wide-eyed amazement wouldn't make him feel so insecure. He doesn't like not knowing things. It almost makes him want to lie about having seen it, which is pathetic. And, knowing Drake, he'd probably start quizzing him about the plot. And it's too late to lie, anyway.
The next moment, he flinches and nearly sucker-punches Red Robin out of habit, when the older boy grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, a fervent look in his eyes. But it's not a pretext to a physical altercation, more a gesture as if they're both in a dramatic stageplay, only Drake seems very serious about it all.
"Boy," he utters, "What are you doing with your life?!"
Okay, now it's getting offensive.
"Fighting crime," Damian hisses in his face.
Drake frowns at him. "That's what the show is about!" He then gasps, exasperated, as if Damian's continued ignorance somehow affects him personally.
"How could you let this happen?!" He complains to Damian's father, who's passing through with a mug of coffee. The Dark Knight gives them both a distracted, mystified look, then returns to his work station.
"Knock it off, Drake!" Damian twists out of his grip. "I don't care, I have no time for your silly television, it means nothing to me!"
That's not true. He's been catching up, in secret. He's so sick of not being able to follow a simple conversation between Nightwing and Batgirl, or Red Robin and anyone, about phasers or time-traveling Doctors or cannoli or the Fonz, and not knowing who Marcia is. But he has a lot of case work and training and homework, and it's a lot of ground to cover. He's only made it to the 60's so far, he's doing classic Star Trek and The Avengers at the moment, and debating on whether or not to pass on The Brady Bunch. Progress has been frustratingly slow.
But Drake doesn't need to know that.
He's still giving him that look.
"Seriously, you've never heard of it." There's no malice in his voice, no gloating, only the same note of disbelieving compassion. "Never, I don't know, read about it, saw a trailer, saw a gif pop up on Tumblr - "
"What's Tumblr?"
" - okay, that's it - " Drake sighs and throws his hands up. "What are you doing on Friday?" His voice is almost stern.
Damian's eyes fly wide open. "That's none of your concern - "
"Nothing, then. Great." Drake whips out his cellphone and busily types into his calendar, all business. There's no trace of the hostility and exasperation he usually shows when they're dealing with each other as he announces, "I'll be coming by with my DVD box set on Friday. Get ready. It's going to be a long night."
"Drake!" He's mortified. Both by having his spare time get co-opted like this and by Drake's sudden, bizarre, unfathomable desire to spend it with him. "I don't want to hang out with you, I can't stand you!" He pauses. "You can't stand me," he points out for good measure.
Drake doesn't seem bothered by that in the slightest.
"Damian, listen," he says kindly, putting away his phone, "I don't want to hang out with you, either. Believe me. There's forty to fifty things I would rather do, and that's off the top of my head, but this."
He touches him again, it's outrageous. This time, it's a hand on his shoulder. It's horribly patronizing, and Damian wants to toss him across the room. But that would be unwarranted because Drake isn't being nearly hostile enough, and his father's watching.
"This is bigger than you and me. This is bigger than both of us. Regardless of my personal feelings, I have to do this. It is my duty as both a connoisseur of Golden Age quality television and as someone who is … acquainted with you." He makes a meaningful pause. "8 pm sound good?"
"Whatever," Damian's mouth mumbles, while his mind inquires, What?! "Maybe I'll be there."
"You better be!" Drake barks at him, then collects himself. "I'm sorry," he then says, which he's never said to Damian before. "I can't make you, of course, but I implore you, do yourself a favor, and be there. Oh, and one last thing." Now he definitely sounds stern. Like an older brother, even. "No looking up spoilers on Wikipedia! With shows like these, you know, they have to be experienced. You feel me?"
"Don't talk to me like that," Damian snaps, now full-on disturbed.
And then, Drake smiles at him. "Then we're clear. Good."
After that, he drops it for the time being, and they return to bickering until Father has to step in to separate them by their capes. But when Drake finally packs up and leaves, in the early hours of morning, Damian hears him muttering "Hasn't seen The Wire," under his breath, as if he still couldn't fathom it.
The days until Friday pass by without event, perhaps apart from the dramatic arrest of a cackling Firefly on a burning elementary school playground on Thursday night, and the 10 new Kung Fu throws he masters. Nothing to really distract him from his looming date with Tim Drake.
He calls up Grayson to complain about Drake's insolence of inviting himself to his home, but all he says is, "Oh man, you haven't seen The Wire?!"
Damian hangs up while Grayson is still laughing.
At one point, he even has to send Drake a message, from his own phone, telling him he needn't bring his DVDs, because it turns out that his father has the Blu Ray collector's edition.
"Ooh, The Wire!" His father enthuses when he asks him about it. "Excellent show. You've seen it?"
"Yes," Damian replies at once.
His father is busy in his study, but he puts down his pen, and looks up at his son, and asks, "Who was your favorite character?"
It's incredible. He never lets people linger in the doorframe of his home office for this long.
"Um," Damian makes. "O-Omar?"
"Mine is Lester Freamon," his father confides, folding his hands. He's even smiling.
"I like him, too." Damian hurries to say. "He's great."
"But Omar is an interesting choice. Come here, sit down. Now, the choices that Omar makes in the story …"
And then he talks to Damian about it for fifteen minutes. And Damian doesn't really understand any of it, and has to bluff his way around some tough corners. But it's still some father-son-time well spent, he feels.
And somehow, he has Tim Drake to thank for that.
That part, he loathes.
Then Friday night comes, and with it Drake, cradling a tiny bowl in his hands and looking positively insane with eagerness.
"I made us low-fat herb dip," he announces.
"Why."
"Because it's delicious. Here, take this." He pushes the dip into Damian's hands, then unbuttons his coat. "Did you prep the TV room?" He inquires, as if they're getting ready for delicate heart surgery.
"We can't go in there!" Damian slides in front him before he can progress any further, still awkwardly holding the bowl of white goo, "My father - he's … entertaining …"
"Got it. No further explanation necessary." Drake's lips are twitching and Damian remembers that he, too, knows what date nights in the Wayne house were like. But then, he says, "Your room then."
It gives them both pause, and they stare at each other while it sinks in how strange this is.
Damian's room is his kingdom, his territory, stacked with his trophies and his books and his weapons collection. He barely lets Pennyworth in with a vacuum cleaner, the idea of Tim Drake sitting down on his couch with nachos and a bowl of dip is outlandish, and they both know it.
It's probably not a good idea for the two of them to gather in a room that contains so many knives.
The older boy clears his throat. "I mean," he says, "There's probably a dozen rooms with TVs in the Manor, and there's plenty more down in the Cave, we could …"
It's actually very thoughtful of him to try and respect Damian's privacy, Damian knows, and he resents it.
"But mine is the best after the one in Father's room," he promptly insists. "My TV, I mean. Whatever this Wire is, I will not be watching it on a sub-standard screen." He turns around and starts the climb up the stairs. "Come."
After a second, he can feel Drake following him.
Up in his room, it's not as weird as he would have expected, because his - he should probably call him "guest" by this point - seems busy, leaving no room for awkward pauses and uncomfortable looks. Drake examines his TV set-up and voices his approval, to which Damian utters an indignant "Tt" (what did Drake expect?), then starts producing things from his backpack, cluttering up Damian's coffee table in the process.
"We'll be doing the long haul tonight, season one, maybe half of season two, maybe more, so we'll definitely be needing some sustenance," he explains, decorating the table with various snacks, "And I thought it'd be rude to bother Alfred all the time - you like these, right?" He holds up a few cans of lemonade.
Damian blinks. "I … I do."
Why does Drake know that?
The older boy nods, and places them on the table with the rest of the refreshments. Damian has already secured the Blu Rays from his father's shelf. The last thing Drake pulls out is his notebook.
"Hope you don't mind," he says, "I'll be taking notes for my The Wire re-watch. Maybe share a few observations online."
Dork.
"I don't care what you do, Drake."
"Great. Now, Damian," Drake makes for a vaguely amusing sight as he looks up to him, all excited, still on his knees next to the coffee table, "I won't lie, it's a show that's a little hard to get into, there's no real exposition and the politics are very intricate, so you may have to give it a couple episodes …"
"Don't insult me," Damian hisses. "I'm my mother's son. She flew in real-life diplomats and dictators to teach me. I understand intricate politics."
Drake gives no indication of being impressed, still completely focused on their presumably magical TV experience. "You'll have no problem following the plot, then," he merrily concludes, sitting down on the couch across the screen.
"If you do have problems, though," he adds with a sly grin, as Damian tentatively gets down next to him, "Don't hesitate to ask!"
Damian snarls and tears the remote out of his hand, and pushes 'Play'.
And it's good.
It's dark and it's poetic, it's about murder and remorse and politics, and he has no trouble getting into it at all. It makes him feel intrigue and compassion and things. And after a while, he forgets that it's Drake who's dragged him into this, and he doesn't mind it when their hands touch as they reach into the bag of nachos at the same time. And when Drake takes out a peanut butter candy bar, breaks it in half an offers one half to him, he accepts it without even taking his eyes off the screen.
And then, at one point, when that one drug dealer dies, he feels a single, manly tear run down his cheek, and Drake doesn't even mock him.
"I know, man," he says softly instead, rustling around with a candy wrapper in the dark, "I know. It's Adriana La Cerva all over again."
"Who …" His voice is a little choked. He clears his throat. "Who is that?"
Tim Drake makes eyes at him, puts his notebook down and his hands up.
"Whoa wait, hold up," he says, "You haven't seen The Sopranos?!"