Sometimes Tim wonders if his dedication as a Gotham vigilante hasn’t yet impaired his judgment for the less-than apocalyptic things in life. The smaller, more mundane things. Non-Mission related things. Things such as whether or not it’s a good idea to leave on his communicator when Superboy decides to visit mid-patrol.
Visit—and haul him a few hundred feet above the perpetual smog and skyscrapers.
On the one hand, protocol 266 dictates that, short of equipment malfunction, compromise, or imminent detonation, the communicator is to remain on at all times during routine patrols. On the other, this was a premeditated visit. Some might even call it a date.
“So… is that a batarang, or are you just happy to see me?”
Oh, for the love of—
//Tell him it’s a banana,// Jason suggests in his ear.
//The classics are always the best,// Dick agrees.
Tim suppresses a long-suffering sigh. “It’s a batarang,” he says, matter-of-fact, and allows himself a grim little moment of satisfaction when Kon pauses in mid-breath at the implications of that particular response.
“You mean—it is,” Kon shifts a glance somewhere off-centre then back. “Huh. Okay. Uh, what about tha—”
“That’s an armoured jock. A lead-lined armoured jock. Eighteen degrees clockwise is a breather and eighteen degrees counter-clockwise is med-grade lubricant and condoms.”
//Way to take all the mystery out of the romance, Replacement.//
Hanging onto Kon’s biceps with nothing but empty space and Kon’s unsubtle thigh between him and the two-thousand foot drop below, Tim manages to not roll his eyes too obviously.
“Med-grade—hold up, seriously?” Somehow Kon manages to look both impressively disturbed and disturbingly impressed. “And wait, shit. I mean. Dude. Not that it ain’t cool you’re putting all those little creepster fanny-packs to awesome use, but isn’t telling a non-Bat about what goes on in all your secret pockets against, like, Bat-protocol or something?”
“Not really,” Tim shrugs, thinks, then amends, “well, maybe a little. But I haven’t told you anything that can be used against the Mission. Not that that’s the priority here either.”
“It’s not?” Kon squints, and that’s when Dick starts pointedly humming Kiss The Girl in G major. Only Dick can't see the subtle gleam of mischief that flashes across Kon's eyes. But Tim can.
He takes the opportunity to flip up the lenses on his mask before hauling himself in closer.
“I dunno man, I’m pretty sure I can come up with a way to—”
“It’s not,” Tim affirms. “Focus, Kon. I’m certain you can hear the running commentary,” he taps the communicator in his ear to illustrate, “and unless you want Nightwing to strap an infestation of mistletoe onto the Batwing and come play chaperone in t-minus twenty, shut up and tilt your head already, Superb—.”
//Maybe we should give them some privacy, now?//
//Are you fucking kidding me? B doesn’t believe in privacy, and neither should we. ‘sides, this is better than those radio-dramas.//
//Huh. You still listen to radio-dramas? In the twenty-first century?//
//Shut up, Dickie-bird.//
Completed: December 23, 2011