DCU Drabble: Inefficiency (Roy/Tim)
This is your random fluff-induc(ed/ing) DC fic for the day. Watch me crash timelines like a bulldozer! \o\
For guingel, for winning at guessing ages. 8D I kind of failed at getting a lot of Roy and Tim into this, BUT I TRIED HARD TO LIVE IT THROUGH DICK? 8D
Inefficiency
Roy/Tim, with cameos by Dick and Bruce (and Lian!)
PG-13 and full of random fluff.
1434 words.
Best thing about New York City? It was nobody's city. Everybody's city. It sure as hell wasn't Gotham, for one - not that Dick didn't love the place he grew up in, but Gotham equated Batman, and Batman equated Bruce, and he loved Bruce, but no one else really got it. You didn't go to Gotham to socialise and make peace. You went to Gotham to scream at security cameras (if you didn't know where the cave actually was, that method'd prove just as effective) and insult his family.
New York City? New York was glorious. It got a bit more sunshine than Gotham. Just as many people. More people. More life. Less psychotic collateral damage. Criminals went to Gotham to pick bones with one of the world's finest. Crooks came to New York to try and rob banks, small children and old women. The old Titan's tower to your left, and Dick Grayson's loft to your right.
'Long way from the West Coast, little brother,' Dick said, before Tim could really attempt to push him off onto the streets of the Diamond District.
'One day,' Tim said, without much rancour. He was getting better, Dick knew; this game was more tradition than fierce sibling rivalry. Tim went over when Dick patted the rooftop space next to him. 'Titans were dealing with something nearby. Kon dropped me off, I figured it'd be easier to crash here than risk having Superboy fly me home. Having fun?'
Dick pointed down to the cheese steak sandwich and thermos flask of soup perched in a small alcove. 'Loads.' He turned, and grinned. 'Kon dropped you? What happened to the jet?'
'Ever told you what happened when I let Bart drive the spare Batmobile?' Tim poured himself a cup, and crouched down. It was cold out, and the only real noise on the street came from taxicabs and pissed off messenger boys whose bike wheels skidded on the slush.
Dick winced, and took a bite out of his sandwich. 'Sounds about right.'
They had supper on the top of a roof at 2am, talked until Dick got bored of peace, swung back to Dick's loft. Typical Batfamily run.
Dick passed Tim the Zesti, Tim pressed mute on the television's remote. 'Was thinking,' Tim said, in between the search for a channel that wouldn't have Dick criticising the laws (or lack thereof) of physics. 'Could the Titans borrow Roy?'
'Borrow Roy?' Dick asked, raising an eyebrow. 'Planning a hunting expedition?'
Tim shrugged. 'Planning a better jet.'
Dick tried hard not to look injured. Tried very hard.
'You're too busy,' Tim said, eyes fixed on the silent game of Jeopardy on screen.
'Am not,' Dick objected. 'I always have time for you.'
Tim raised one hand. 'Still recovering from Bludhaven. Your social life is in tatters. Have a museum to curate. Fallout from the Outsiders still wearing you down. Fallout from the Titans still wearing you down. Newly redeemed relationship with Batman needs work. Still recovering from Bludhaven.'
'Tim,' Dick said.
Tim reached for his drink. 'And Bruce will kill me if I engage you in anything more strenuous than arm wrestling. If I get you on this,' Tim turned to look at Dick, 'you'll be chaperoning us. It's the Titans. There's a little switch that gets flicked in the room whenever Nightwing turns up.'
Dick opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Snagged Tim's drink. 'So, Roy, huh?'
'The Pequod looked really cool,' Tim pointed out. 'Plus, ward of a rich man. Single fatherhood. Probably could use as much distraction as you, and would undoubtedly deal with restful work better.'
'Have it all figured out, don't you,' Dick laughed. And smiled.
Tim threw him a glance. 'What?'
'Nothing,' Dick continued to smile. And kept smiling. 'I'll go give him a call.'
'So,' Dick said, clinging onto one of the few gargoyles that he could perch on in Manhattan. His earpiece was warm in his right ear. 'Planning anything for Christmas, Alfie?'
'Roasted turkey and a dining table which will have, no doubt, three empty seats.'
Dick snickered. 'I'll try and come home.'
'Indeed, as you do every year.'
Dick chose to ignore that one barb. 'Is Bruce at home?'
'Can your impressive "dongle" not contact him directly, amongst its other functions?'
'Easier to find Bruce when I go through you,' Dick said. 'I get Batman a lot otherwise.'
'Master Richard?' It was the what-are-you-planning voice; often seen after unwise experiments in either the kitchen or with Bruce's sense of humour.
Dick whistled, quietly. 'Just a little family gossip. Timmy's growing up,' he sang.
'Dick?' came the switch to Bruce's voice, automatically on the defensive.
'I know how you feel about Harpers and Arrows, Bruce,' Dick started. 'But hear me out on this one before you call out the chastity belts...'
'Hey, kid,' Roy answered the window, and managed it get it three quarters of the way open before Lian intervened with her idea of appropriate greeting etiquette.
'HELLO UNCLE ROBIN,' she grinned, attaching herself to the one leg Tim had in over the sill. Her memory for masked vigilantes, Roy mused, was prodigious (like the rest of his little girl); her completely lack of surprise at people coming out of the woodwork instead of the front door - that was a little more worrying. She'd only seen Tim once, twice? before, on the odd occasion when the Bats came through together or when Dick went about attempting to turn his younger brother into something less creepily like "daddy dearest".
'Hi, Lian,' Tim said, mask on and completely at home and god, Roy was friends with such complete freaks. Definitely freaks, when he was being deemed a good influence on the younger generation. Tim swung Lian up and moved into the apartment proper. 'Hi, Roy. Thanks for making some time for me.'
'Hey, I'm in between teams,' Roy shrugged. 'And once a Titan, and all that. Mi casa su casa.' He waved Tim towards the space he'd cleared out on the dining table - laptop, schematics, beer and juice for the underage crimefighter.
Sometime during the second day, while Lian helped determine what colour the left wing would be, Roy stopped and said, 'You can do those without a calculator?'
Tim stopped, and looked at him, and blinked, 'Yes?'
Roy leaned back in his chair. 'So,' he asked. 'How hard is it for you guys to actually act dumb?'
Tim left before dinner on day four with the promise to return the next day with the revamped (and un-Crayola'd) masterplans; Lian made him swear to bring cookies; Roy made him promise to bring back more of that weird music that boys his age listened to nowadays, not that he was saying it was any good, or anything.
Dick visited the Batcave on Day 9 of Tim's quest to build the world's first speedster-proof jet, and nonchalantly perched in his old (old) place on the corner of the computer console while Bruce pretended not to be not-irritated. He watched Robin do sets on the weights, iPod plugged in and so normal it made Dick feel eight years old again. (Maybe that was what Bruce felt, on the good days.)
'Is there a reason you're sitting there?' Bruce's way of showing he cared: bluntness.
'Roy calls you the internet, you know,' Dick offered. It made Bruce stop typing, at least. 'You're the most plugged in.'
'Harper can keep his analogies,' Bruce replied, and started on the next JLA report for his database.
Dick tilted his head. 'C'mon, Bruce.'
Bruce turned. 'What do you want?'
'If he didn't bug Roy's apartment and if you don't know, I'm going to be losing a very big bet with Wally, and you raised me not to lose.'
There was a miniscule pause.
'Roy's better than Superboy?' Dick pushed.
'Tell West that this is none of his business.'
'Go little brother,' Dick murmured, and made a note never to ever, ever let Roy live this down, ever. Ever.
'There's a problem with the exhaust calcs,' Roy said.
Week two point five. Tim'd never been so inefficient in his life. Never enjoyed it quite so much, either. 'Really?'
'Yeah, really. And -'
'And?'
'You can do those without a calculator. Somehow I doubt you'd get them wrong after feeding them through whatever fancy gadgets you guys have --'
'Daddy, why is Uncle Robin blushing? Uncle Robin, you're blushing! Aw, now you're blushing too. Daddy? Daddy?'
'Come on,' Dick said, triumphantly, smacking the table and holding out his hand. 'You owe me pizza, and fifty bucks.'
Wally scowled at the screen Dick had hooked up to Tim's feed (broadband routing courtesty of Wayne Entreprises, vis-a-vis the Cave), and dug for his wallet.
For guingel, for winning at guessing ages. 8D I kind of failed at getting a lot of Roy and Tim into this, BUT I TRIED HARD TO LIVE IT THROUGH DICK? 8D
Inefficiency
Roy/Tim, with cameos by Dick and Bruce (and Lian!)
PG-13 and full of random fluff.
1434 words.
Best thing about New York City? It was nobody's city. Everybody's city. It sure as hell wasn't Gotham, for one - not that Dick didn't love the place he grew up in, but Gotham equated Batman, and Batman equated Bruce, and he loved Bruce, but no one else really got it. You didn't go to Gotham to socialise and make peace. You went to Gotham to scream at security cameras (if you didn't know where the cave actually was, that method'd prove just as effective) and insult his family.
New York City? New York was glorious. It got a bit more sunshine than Gotham. Just as many people. More people. More life. Less psychotic collateral damage. Criminals went to Gotham to pick bones with one of the world's finest. Crooks came to New York to try and rob banks, small children and old women. The old Titan's tower to your left, and Dick Grayson's loft to your right.
'Long way from the West Coast, little brother,' Dick said, before Tim could really attempt to push him off onto the streets of the Diamond District.
'One day,' Tim said, without much rancour. He was getting better, Dick knew; this game was more tradition than fierce sibling rivalry. Tim went over when Dick patted the rooftop space next to him. 'Titans were dealing with something nearby. Kon dropped me off, I figured it'd be easier to crash here than risk having Superboy fly me home. Having fun?'
Dick pointed down to the cheese steak sandwich and thermos flask of soup perched in a small alcove. 'Loads.' He turned, and grinned. 'Kon dropped you? What happened to the jet?'
'Ever told you what happened when I let Bart drive the spare Batmobile?' Tim poured himself a cup, and crouched down. It was cold out, and the only real noise on the street came from taxicabs and pissed off messenger boys whose bike wheels skidded on the slush.
Dick winced, and took a bite out of his sandwich. 'Sounds about right.'
They had supper on the top of a roof at 2am, talked until Dick got bored of peace, swung back to Dick's loft. Typical Batfamily run.
Dick passed Tim the Zesti, Tim pressed mute on the television's remote. 'Was thinking,' Tim said, in between the search for a channel that wouldn't have Dick criticising the laws (or lack thereof) of physics. 'Could the Titans borrow Roy?'
'Borrow Roy?' Dick asked, raising an eyebrow. 'Planning a hunting expedition?'
Tim shrugged. 'Planning a better jet.'
Dick tried hard not to look injured. Tried very hard.
'You're too busy,' Tim said, eyes fixed on the silent game of Jeopardy on screen.
'Am not,' Dick objected. 'I always have time for you.'
Tim raised one hand. 'Still recovering from Bludhaven. Your social life is in tatters. Have a museum to curate. Fallout from the Outsiders still wearing you down. Fallout from the Titans still wearing you down. Newly redeemed relationship with Batman needs work. Still recovering from Bludhaven.'
'Tim,' Dick said.
Tim reached for his drink. 'And Bruce will kill me if I engage you in anything more strenuous than arm wrestling. If I get you on this,' Tim turned to look at Dick, 'you'll be chaperoning us. It's the Titans. There's a little switch that gets flicked in the room whenever Nightwing turns up.'
Dick opened his mouth. Closed his mouth. Snagged Tim's drink. 'So, Roy, huh?'
'The Pequod looked really cool,' Tim pointed out. 'Plus, ward of a rich man. Single fatherhood. Probably could use as much distraction as you, and would undoubtedly deal with restful work better.'
'Have it all figured out, don't you,' Dick laughed. And smiled.
Tim threw him a glance. 'What?'
'Nothing,' Dick continued to smile. And kept smiling. 'I'll go give him a call.'
'So,' Dick said, clinging onto one of the few gargoyles that he could perch on in Manhattan. His earpiece was warm in his right ear. 'Planning anything for Christmas, Alfie?'
'Roasted turkey and a dining table which will have, no doubt, three empty seats.'
Dick snickered. 'I'll try and come home.'
'Indeed, as you do every year.'
Dick chose to ignore that one barb. 'Is Bruce at home?'
'Can your impressive "dongle" not contact him directly, amongst its other functions?'
'Easier to find Bruce when I go through you,' Dick said. 'I get Batman a lot otherwise.'
'Master Richard?' It was the what-are-you-planning voice; often seen after unwise experiments in either the kitchen or with Bruce's sense of humour.
Dick whistled, quietly. 'Just a little family gossip. Timmy's growing up,' he sang.
'Dick?' came the switch to Bruce's voice, automatically on the defensive.
'I know how you feel about Harpers and Arrows, Bruce,' Dick started. 'But hear me out on this one before you call out the chastity belts...'
'Hey, kid,' Roy answered the window, and managed it get it three quarters of the way open before Lian intervened with her idea of appropriate greeting etiquette.
'HELLO UNCLE ROBIN,' she grinned, attaching herself to the one leg Tim had in over the sill. Her memory for masked vigilantes, Roy mused, was prodigious (like the rest of his little girl); her completely lack of surprise at people coming out of the woodwork instead of the front door - that was a little more worrying. She'd only seen Tim once, twice? before, on the odd occasion when the Bats came through together or when Dick went about attempting to turn his younger brother into something less creepily like "daddy dearest".
'Hi, Lian,' Tim said, mask on and completely at home and god, Roy was friends with such complete freaks. Definitely freaks, when he was being deemed a good influence on the younger generation. Tim swung Lian up and moved into the apartment proper. 'Hi, Roy. Thanks for making some time for me.'
'Hey, I'm in between teams,' Roy shrugged. 'And once a Titan, and all that. Mi casa su casa.' He waved Tim towards the space he'd cleared out on the dining table - laptop, schematics, beer and juice for the underage crimefighter.
Sometime during the second day, while Lian helped determine what colour the left wing would be, Roy stopped and said, 'You can do those without a calculator?'
Tim stopped, and looked at him, and blinked, 'Yes?'
Roy leaned back in his chair. 'So,' he asked. 'How hard is it for you guys to actually act dumb?'
Tim left before dinner on day four with the promise to return the next day with the revamped (and un-Crayola'd) masterplans; Lian made him swear to bring cookies; Roy made him promise to bring back more of that weird music that boys his age listened to nowadays, not that he was saying it was any good, or anything.
Dick visited the Batcave on Day 9 of Tim's quest to build the world's first speedster-proof jet, and nonchalantly perched in his old (old) place on the corner of the computer console while Bruce pretended not to be not-irritated. He watched Robin do sets on the weights, iPod plugged in and so normal it made Dick feel eight years old again. (Maybe that was what Bruce felt, on the good days.)
'Is there a reason you're sitting there?' Bruce's way of showing he cared: bluntness.
'Roy calls you the internet, you know,' Dick offered. It made Bruce stop typing, at least. 'You're the most plugged in.'
'Harper can keep his analogies,' Bruce replied, and started on the next JLA report for his database.
Dick tilted his head. 'C'mon, Bruce.'
Bruce turned. 'What do you want?'
'If he didn't bug Roy's apartment and if you don't know, I'm going to be losing a very big bet with Wally, and you raised me not to lose.'
There was a miniscule pause.
'Roy's better than Superboy?' Dick pushed.
'Tell West that this is none of his business.'
'Go little brother,' Dick murmured, and made a note never to ever, ever let Roy live this down, ever. Ever.
'There's a problem with the exhaust calcs,' Roy said.
Week two point five. Tim'd never been so inefficient in his life. Never enjoyed it quite so much, either. 'Really?'
'Yeah, really. And -'
'And?'
'You can do those without a calculator. Somehow I doubt you'd get them wrong after feeding them through whatever fancy gadgets you guys have --'
'Daddy, why is Uncle Robin blushing? Uncle Robin, you're blushing! Aw, now you're blushing too. Daddy? Daddy?'
'Come on,' Dick said, triumphantly, smacking the table and holding out his hand. 'You owe me pizza, and fifty bucks.'
Wally scowled at the screen Dick had hooked up to Tim's feed (broadband routing courtesty of Wayne Entreprises, vis-a-vis the Cave), and dug for his wallet.