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weekend-conspiracy-theorist · 9 months

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an entry in the tim&steph role swap au

Dick's burner phone buzzed, continuously and insistently, in the secret pocket of his Nightwing suit. He forwarded his personal calls to it (trusting Oracle and Proxy's good work to keep that data hidden) even on patrol because (contrary to Bruce's opinion on the matter), sometimes emergencies happened, even in his private life. But whoever was trying to get hold of him right now had picked the worst time.

Busting up this arms deal was just another Tuesday, but still--there were bullets involved. Dick couldn't afford to be distracted.

At least the pattern of the buzzing indicated it was someone In The Know--probably one of the Titans, and he was going to strangle Roy if Mia and Emiko had stolen his phone to make crank calls again.

His escrima snapped out at a man's neck, the taser at the end crackling to life, and he set a boot against another man's shoulder, tossing himself away as the retort of gunfire followed him. It bought him the split second necessary to flip his comm to his personal channel and answer the fucking phone. He grit out, "Look, I'm a little busy right now--"

"I am frustratingly aware," Junior Private Investigator Tim Drake hissed back at him, "considering I'm stuck in the rafters of this warehouse while you get busy."

Dick had been doing this for too long to actually snap his head around in surprise, but it was a near thing. The next spray of gunfire was close enough to raise his heartrate--something the vigorous acrobatics had failed to do--as he cut off one of the gun runners before she could make a break for it. One, two--crackle of the taser. He caught her with one foot before she could hit the ground, lightly redirecting her so she didn't slam her head on a metal pipe, and gracefully ducked beneath a wild punch. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Marcus Akron's wife is convinced he's cheating on her with a Blüdhaven barbie doll. He's not, but apparently he is funding this little venture. I was tailing him. You crashed the party." Gunfire echoed across the line, a moment behind reality, and Tim made a distasteful noise. "Look, every escape route I've got here is going to leave me disturbingly exposed, but I've got some quality photographic evidence I'd be delighted to exchange for a long enough distraction to excise myself from this situation." As an afterthought, he added, "Just don't make me talk to the cops; I hate dealing with the Blüdhaven PD. They make even Gotham's cops look competent."

Alright: so this just turned into a slightly bigger challenge than your average Tuesday.

Dick grinned, sharp and terrifying, and put another one of the gun runners onto the ground. "Where are you?"

"Three rafters east and about twenty feet south from the northwest corner of the building, tucked behind a column. There's a skylight about a hundred feet away; I need about twenty seconds and I can be out of here."

Dick threw himself into the air. The moment stretched; bullets whizzed past his outstretched fingertips; his feet hit the ground. He had a plan.

"In ten," he told Tim. "Be ready."

"Aye aye, Captain," Tim agreed, faintly sardonic, and Dick was laughing as he spun on his heel and sprinted directly for the man with the biggest gun.

"Overcompensating, huh?" he asked, sympathetic. "It's okay. I'm sure your wife loves you just the way you--" He yanked the guy's hand out to the side, sucking air through his teeth as he inspected the pale, empty divot on the guy's ring finger. "Mm. Maybe not."

There was the punch he was waiting for.

***

Dick found Tim sitting on the edge of the roof, back pressed against an HVAC vent with one leg dangling and the other stretched out next to him, when he was finally able to extricate himself. The night sky danced with flashing red and blue lights.

Tim looked up, though Dick was certain his footsteps had been silent on the metal roofing, and wiggled the camera. "There's good stuff here," he said, a little satisfied and a little defensive. "I do need to make copies for Mrs. Akron before I hand over the SD card, but it won't take long once I get back to my hotel."

"She gonna be the type to be relieved or furious that it was grandiose dreams of a criminal empire keeping her husband away at night, rather than a buxom blonde?" Dick eyed Tim's extended leg, frowning at the neat white bandage sticking out from underneath rolled up jeans, but he kept his tone light.

"Could go either way." Tim tucked the camera away into the messenger bag that sat next to him, following Dick's eyeline to his leg, and then huffed. "Inconvenient ricochet," he assured Dick. "Doesn't even need stitches. Did however inspire me to spam call your personal cell after my attempts to text Batgirl to tell her to hit up your comms failed."

Dick considered this. "You live a weird life," he decided, dropping down to sit next to him on the edge of the roof, and Tim snorted.

"Says the superhero to the PI. One of us has Superman on speed dial, and it sure isn't me."

Dick kept his eyes straight ahead, gazing out across the city he'd claimed as his own, but he could feel Tim looking at him. A little nervous, a little starstruck and pretending not to be, just like he always was around Dick. Jason had told Dick that Stephanie had told him that Jason used to be Tim's favorite Robin.

Dick was pretty certain Stephanie had been lying.

Probably for the sake of endearing Tim even slightly to Jason, in knowing anticipation of the ongoing and deeply entertaining animosity that they held for each other. The gambit had worked long enough to get the two blindingly competent morons to collaborate on that serial killer case, so it was hard to fault her for it. And Dick certainly wasn't going to tell Jason.

It's not like Dick wanted to be Tim's Favorite Robin (Other Than Stephanie); he'd already had that title--sans caveat--awarded to him by Superman. No offense to Tim, but that held a much higher cachet.

(Which--Bruce knew that Dick would absolutely pick Clark in the Justice League Divorce, right? He had to, at this point.)

Having Tim make those big doe eyes at him all the time was a little flattering, but it was also a little weird, and actually even a little annoying--if just because Dick liked Tim, and the hero worship thing made it hard to actually have a relaxed conversation with the guy. (So did the fact that Stephanie and Tim both retained six or seven years' worth of habitual avoidance techniques and a disdain for authority that Dick had been horrified to learn included himself, but it was mostly the hero worship thing.)

So Dick handled it the only way he could handle it: he ignored it.

"I don't have Superman on speed dial," he countered, turning to flash Tim a conspiratorial grin. "We have a secret whistle."

"Of course you do," Tim said.

Dick was pleased to hear the sarcasm outweigh the sincerity. He grinned, wiggling his eyebrows, and Tim huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

"I, uh--" He broke off as his phone began to buzz, shifting his weight to pull it out of his pocket, and sighed. He flashed the screen at Dick, showing a contact picture of himself and Stephanie. "Guess she finally saw the texts," he said dryly.

Time slowed down, the way it usually did when Dick was formulating a game plan in the middle of a fight, as Tim went to swipe up to answer the call.

Dick had been Stephanie's self-appointed surrogate big brother (whether she liked it or not) for years now, and it suddenly struck him that by the transitive property of lonely children and platonic soulmates, his obnoxious big brother duties absolutely extended to Tim, too.

Nightwing struck, faster than Tim could react; an open handed blow to the elbow that sent the phone flying even as Dick surged upwards to catch it and threw himself into a back handspring to recover. He answered the call himself, other hand extended to fend Tim off (squawking, "What the fuck?" as he scrambled after Dick), and held the phone to his ear.

"Tim, oh, thank god--"

Stephanie's voice was frantic enough to make him almost feel bad for what he was about to do. But only almost.

"Stephanie Brown?" Dick asked, in a grave tone. "It's Nightwing. I'm afraid I've got some rather serious news for you."

"What the fuck, Dick!" Tim repeated, more vehemently, and he made a grab for his phone.

Dick twisted away from him easily, biting back a cackle, and continued, "I didn't have time to answer my phone in the middle of the fight, so I wasn't aware of any civilian presence until everything was said and done. Your friend got shot--"

"WHAT?"

"--but it was just a graze. He did faint into my arms though."

Credit where it was due: Tim Drake had been going through the Batman Mandated Black Bat & Batgirl Mixed Martial Arts Boot Camp for months now, on top of the more traditional lessons he'd had as a teenager. He wasn't an untalented kid. By Dick's estimation, in strict hand-to-hand conditions Tim outclassed 99% of the general population and even some of the heroes Dick knew who were over-reliant on tech or superpowers.

That still put him a class below the bats and the birds of Gotham.

Dick cheerfully adjusted his weight, pinning Tim's arm to the ground beneath his knee as he controlled his head (read: shoved it into the ground) with his free arm, and continued blithely, "Yeah, he saw the blood and just keeled right over. The bullet wound is inconsequential; it's the blow to his ego that I don't think he'll recover from. He's going to need long term therapy and some self-help books--"

"You're the fucking worst," Stephanie told him. "You gave me a heart attack. So he's fine?"

"Except for the fainting and the--" Dick wheezed as one of Tim's pointy elbows managed to find its way into his diaphragm.

"Considering I have watched Boyfriend perform stitches on himself before, I'm going to go ahead and assume you're just trying--and failing--to be funny," Stephanie told him dryly.

"Why would he do his own stitches." Dick gave Tim a knuckle noogie, repeating, "Why would you do your own stitches? Kid. You're not an illegal vigilante with a secret identity to maintain. Just go to the hospital."

"I usually do--"

"He usually does--"

"--but there were extenuating circumstances."

The responses were in near unison, ruined only by the slight delay across the phone line, and Dick couldn't help but laugh, sitting back on his heels and letting Tim squirm out from under him. "You two are something else."

"Shut the fuck up and give Boyfriend back his phone," Stephanie ordered, and Dick politely held the phone out to Tim, who accepted it with a disgruntled glare.

So much better than the doe eyes, Dick thought with smug satisfaction.

"I'm fine," Tim said. He was sitting cross-legged on the rooftop carefully out of arms reach of Dick, eyeing him suspiciously. "Nightwing's an asshole. What else is new?" He was silent for a moment and then he rolled his eyes. "Because it seemed like a straightforward adultery case. How was I supposed to--No, come on. You know Red Bird makes most of its money on rich people's marital problems. I'd have to actually charge market rates on the more important cases if--I did not go into this business just because--Stop calling me a professional stalker, Stephanie. No, I won't agree to that trade. It's not the--Because he is. Look deep into your heart and admit it to yourself. He bought you an entire car and multiple motorcycles and a personal Batcave." Tim snickered. "Yeah, but even when we were dating I never bought you anything other than pizza and that thirty dollar tennis bracelet that turned your wrist green."

Dick remembered that, he realized. Stephanie had showed the bracelet off to him, bashful in a way he'd never seen her before about a boy treating her like she was special. She'd still been in braces at the time (and rightfully suspicious, despite Bruce's steadfast insistence that he'd had nothing to do with her selection for the program that helped Crystal afford them). It seemed to strike Dick, over and over, that Tim had been in the background, present but unseen, for nearly as long as Dick had known Stephanie.

Tim's voice softened. "Yeah, Stephie. Of course. You, too. Oh--tell Wendy I said hi, and to stop breaking into my system to steal my spreadsheets. I don't care if she can't get her own Vengeful Mad Scientist Predictive Algorithm to ignore Mr. Terrific; she needs to leave mine alone."

One last pause. Here, Tim's eyes flicked over to Nightwing, a light in his gray-blue eyes that had Dick raising his eyebrows in concern. "Well," Tim said, in a perfectly even tone. "That goes without saying."

He hung up.

"Do I wanna know?" Dick asked.

"Steph's revenge will be swift and unavoidable," Tim promised him, as he rose to his feet and dusted off his jeans.

"Sure," Dick agreed, though he silently suspected that Stephanie would be more pleased than upset once she recognized that Dick had successfully smashed through Tim's defenses and actually managed to become his friend.

Tim looked at him, hands on his hips, and then dropped his chin to his chest as he laughed, a little helplessly. "Oy. You know this...?" Tim gestured to indicate the rooftop, himself, the costumed vigilante he was speaking with. "Downright nostalgic. Sitting on top of an abandoned warehouse, waiting semi-patiently for a Robin to finish beating up ne'er-do-wells while I fiddle with the ISO on my camera, ending up with my face smushed into a rooftop while said Robin gloats from on top of me. You just need to give me a fond but rude nickname and threaten to throw me off the top of Wayne Tower, and I might as well be fourteen again."

Dick laughed himself, hopping up to his feet. "Wayne Tower's too far from here," he joked. "But don't worry, I know all the good skyscrapers in Blüdhaven."

"Think that means I do need to worry, actually."

"Oh, yeah. Absolutely." Dick snorted. "Stephanie would murder me with her bare hands, even if I whistled up Superman to come catch you."

"She worries," Tim said, with exasperated fondness, "as if she isn't also a regular ass human being with no superpowers."

"In full body armor, well-armed, and with years of training and experience," Dick countered dryly. "You get where the difference is here, right?"

Tim rolled his eyes, like the barely-not-a-teenager he was. "Well, thanks again for giving me an escape window. I--"

"You never thanked me the first time, actually," Dick said, steam rolling over whatever semi-graceful exit from the conversation Tim had been about to fashion for himself. "Not that I needed it. Thank you for the photos; I'm just going to assume they'll be helpful and win me brownie points with the BPD once I send them over. What does the traded favors thing mean for our relative standing, vis-a-vis the taco tax?"

Dick had never had it completely explained to him, but he'd heard Tim and Stephanie and even Cassandra reference "the taco tax" often enough to get the gist. Favors could be bought and apologies made via the gift of tacos from the recipient's restaurant or street cart of choice. The exchange rate seemed to be complex and dependent on a potentially sentient spreadsheet, but Dick figured they could simplify, just this once.

Tim blinked. "The taco tax," he repeated.

"It's only that I figure saving your life kind of outweighs the evidence thing," Dick said. "So I'm pretty sure you owe me, millionaire."

The kid scowled. "Saving my life is exaggerating a bit, don't you think? Not to mention the stunt you pulled with my phone, billionaire, so--"

Bingo. Dick wouldn't even bother to point out that Bruce was the rich one, not him. He knew Tim knew.

"So I owe you, then?" Dick clapped Tim on the shoulder, grinning. "Great. Let me show you the best taco place in Blüdhaven. They're even open 24/7."

***

Dick squeezed a lime over his seventh taco. Alfred was going to be horrified when he checked his diet log for the day.

He was in his civvies now, jeans and a tshirt and his favorite leather jacket (the one Jason had repeatedly tried and failed to steal, back when he was a small enough Robin to actually fit into his big brother's clothes) draped over the back of the seat. The flourescent bulbs over their heads flickered, filling the room with that quiet electric buzz, and the formica tabletop was chipped and peeling.

"Stupidest thing Stephanie's ever said to you," he suggested.

Tim snorted. "How am I supposed to pick."

"Alright, stupidest thing you've ever said to Steph."

To Dick's surprise--and delight--Tim laughed so sharply he nearly choked on a piece of radish.

"Oh, that one's easy," he wheezed, swiping at his face with a napkin. "We were fifteen. We'd been dating for like--a month. We'd kissed four times. One night, Stephanie turned to me on the swingset at the park we liked to hang out at when we weren't--" he waved a hand to indicate the vigilante activities that he wouldn't mention aloud in public--"You know. And she said, 'So, you should know I just found out I'm pregnant.'" Tim laid a hand on his chest. "And I said, 'My dad's going to kill me.'"

Dick threw his head back with the force of his laughter, and Tim joined in, shaking his head as he reached for his water glass. "She likes to trot that one out whenever she thinks I'm getting too uppity about my own intelligence."

"I can see why."

"In my defense, sex ed at a conservative boarding school is uniquely focused on trying to prevent teenage boys from having crises of sexuality that might scandalize their parents," Tim said dryly. "Less so on the actual mechanics of parenthood."

Dick snorted. "How'd that work out for them?"

His lips twitched. "Dunno. I'll have to ask my boyfriend when I get home." He sat back in his chair, grinning, and said, "My turn, right?"

With an inviting wave of his taco, Dick declared, "Hit me with your best shot."

"Weirdest reason you've ever been kidnapped."

"Hm." Dick turned the question over in his mind thoughtfully, as Tim picked his way through his third taco. He'd insisted Dick owed him eight of them, then gone outside and handed most of them--and a twenty--to the homeless guy they'd passed a block back. The guy had tried to kick him in the crotch in response. Ah, Blüdhaven. "One time there was a guy who was certain Bruce was secretly a lizard person--"

"Antisemitic. Continue."

Dick held a hand up as if to say, "Thank you." "That's exactly what I said, when he pulled the canvas bag off of my head and started telling me about it. It's exactly what Commissioner Gordon said, too, when he was interrogating the guy." He winked. "It was even what Batman said when he rescued me."

Straight-faced, Tim said, "The folks at my synagogue think Batman's Jewish, but I'm not convinced. I mean, what are the odds that Bruce Wayne and Batman, the two most famous Gothamites, are both Jewish?"

Dick struggled not to laugh. "Gee, Tim. That's a great point," he managed to choke out.

Tim ducked his head to hide the grin that he couldn't bite back any longer. "Now, that Superman, though--"

Dick kicked him under the table, wheezing.

"What a mensch."

"Shut up, I'm begging you."

Tim sat back, laughing, and rubbed a hand over his face. "These are really good tacos," he said. And, "Thanks." Sincerely, and with eye contact. Confident, sustained, non-doe-eyed eye contact.

He wasn't talking about the tacos. Dick smiled, setting his arm along the back of his chair. "You're welcome."

#tim drake #dick grayson #the tim&steph role swap au #canon dick & tim's relationship is soooo shaped. I've been trying to fit them--and the taco tax--into a fic since the beginning #but I never got it quite right #this is also somehow the first time the taco tax has ever made it to print despite being something I came up with during the first week #a couple notes: tim's robin rankings are actually much more complex than any one of them (except steph) being his ''favorite''#if anything his favorite is ACTUALLY damian. because damian is steph's surrogate little brother and that means he's tim's too.#and steph's reason for lying to jason was two-fold; partially the reason theorized above #and partially because tim's going to be apoplectic when he finds out she said that and it's gonna be really funny #the thing is that no one in this au is a fully reliable narrator at any moment. steph exaggerates; tim downplays; cass aids and abets

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