A/N: This turned out kinda long. It's really late, I have Trig first thing in the morning, and I didn't review as much as I maybe should have. Lengths will vary greatly for the one-shots contained in this 'story,' which will also range on the spectrum from fluffy to angsty to complete OOC-y. I'm just going to say that for my purposes, Jason will be one…relatively good terms with most of the Batfam. I can't think of anything more to say at the moment, except goodnight. Goodnight, and please review! Again, if it sucks, I'm sorry, but I thought it was kind of cute ^_^
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Tim's sitting in front of his laptop in his so-big-it-echoes penthouse, wishing he had the Batcave's endless holographic monitor to the compact notebook in front of him. For one, his brain is starting to throb in tandem with his numb rear end from the flashing of file after file on the screen, where the Cave's computer would have had no trouble with the expansive list of content; secondly, Tim's pretty sure that Steph's cellphone had more memory than this—this thing.
The 'cover' of the notebook slaps down with a satisfying whack, and while the Penguin's new head-hunting mercenary is important—really, Tim considers it a top priority, he swears he does—his head doesn't seem to be processing and filing information as readily as per his norm. It's nothing to do with him, he knows, he simply needs a more efficient, less cluttered medium for finding data. But he's been in this new residency not yet a week, and he's either been patrolling or transporting his belongings every night, sleeping most of the day or taking care of Teen Titan business since not everyone's nocturnal.
Whilst posting a mental note to get the computer schematics from Bruce, he sets down the computer so that the ninety-degree angle lines up with identical corner of the coffee table and pads on heavy, bare feet to the kitchen. It takes most of his remaining willpower to resist the call of his coffeemaker—he should really be sleeping. Sleep is necessary, and maybe his head wouldn't hurt so much. But…
This case file was not going to sort itself out. Maybe just another hour or two, then he could catch a couple hours of shuteye before his rendezvous with Bruce.
Next thing he knows, Tim's inserting a filter and reaching for the decaf he keeps on hand, for such a situation. He thinks that he can maybe he can trick his brain into thinking it's caffeine—though he knows otherwise. But it'll still taste good, so he's halfway through his immaculate (nearly religious) measuring of the grounds before the flashing of his phone flashing it's alarmed light a few feet away.
He ignores it only long enough to finish the perfect preparation of his faux caffeine fix before picking it up. The top bar reads 'Dick Grayson' and underneath is a little blue speech bubble.
you moved. again.
Whoops. So Tim hadn't exactly sent out a memo, he didn't feel bad about it. He'd been beyond busy, and all anyone had to do was ask. Which they hadn't. Batman Inc., world's greatest detectives, hellooo? A hint of amusement flashes in his fatigued mind as he puts the phone to sleep, not bothering to reply. If there can be tone sent via text, Dick's is decidedly accusatory.
Less than five minutes later, Tim's pouring a cup for himself and fingerstripes are rapping against bulletproof glass. Tim grins to himself, mostly because Dick's getting better at finding his living quarters, but partly because he's just super tired, and points to his bedroom.
Nightwing raises an eyebrow under his domino mask, but scales the building to the next room over where his little brother meets him and opens the window from the inside after punching in the security code. Dick more-or-less tumbles in with the night air and a cheery atmosphere as Tim tosses the window shut with the hand not occupied by a mug.
A chuckle rumbles through Dick's chest as he leads the way to Tim's new living room and takes a bundle from his back, unloading it onto the coffee table. Tim's turn to raise an eyebrow.
"Alfred sends cookie," he says, serious but lighthearted. "Says you'll forget to eat if he doesn't."
Tim nods distractedly as his free hand twitches forward—food does not belong in the living room—and notes that he ate sometime earlier when Kon brought pizza to a team meeting. Right?
"You get my message?" Dick asks, his happiness a little forced, when Tim fails to respond.
"Uh-huh," he nods again, starting to feel like a bobble head.
Dick's mouth flattens out as he waits for more of an answer, and he looks absolutely dissatisfied and a little anxious when he doesn't get one. "You need to start telling someone when you move, Timmy. That'll seriously get us into trouble one of these days."
Tim scoffs a bit, but Dick's not giving in this time. Not going to let him off the hook and say something else for his dislike of awkward silence. He waits, and finally Tim gives in.
"So what do you think of it?" he asks, making a sweeping gesture with his hands.
Dick looks around curiously, hands on his hips as he surveys. When he speaks again, it's carefully neither positive nor negative. "How many people do you have living in here, Timmy? I mean, spacious is one thing, but this rivals the Batcave."
"That's an exaggeration and you know it," Tim defends himself. And he can simply not stand the bag of cookies on the coffee table anymore—food does not belong in the living room—so he darts forward and grabs it like it would have tried to make a break for it, and turns toward the kitchen. Dick's suddenly standing in front of him, and he can't figure out how the hell he did it for the life of him. With one hand, his big brother takes the bag, and the other grasps the mug; Tim gives him the former, but retains his hold on the latter.
"Come on, man, let go," he says, brow furrowing. "I'm not done with that."
Without looking—or ever having been in the penthouse before—Dick sets the bag on the counter behind him and peels off his mask to see Tim without the veiling lenses.
"Timothy Jackson, you've obviously had enough coffee for one night," Dick says with a staged roll of the eyes.
"It's decaf." Tim tries to tug it back, but Dick only pulls harder.
"Yeah, right. And I've just decided to become the Joker's new sidekick." His eyes sparkle in the moment they stand there, locked into stare-down combat, though Tim's eyelids are drooping more and more by the second. "Seriously little brother, I think three-thirty is the cut off—"
"Three—" Time cuts him off, eyes flying to the digital clock (synched up with his phone, communicator, microwave, and alarm clock) and widening to the point of bulging. Dick takes the moment of shock to rip the mug away, dumping the contents down the sink along with the rest of the pot. A sad whimper-groan crawls up the back of the younger's throat and he wipes his hand across his face.
Coffee forgotten, Tim pushes Dick from behind, steering him back toward his bedroom door. "No, out the window you go. I've got three hours…less than three hours to get this information—this nonexistent information—gathered and to Bruce so he can use it against Cobblepot…." He trails off, before steering him back to the couch and his computer. "After we get you into the security systems. Then you can come back whenever, 'kay?"
Dick digs his heels into the ground, effectively stopping the meek pressure on his back from propelling him forward. Tim simply grunts in exasperation and jogs around him, flipping open the notebook and punching in a few lines of code before motioning Nightwing to put his hand on the monitor. He does, a slightly bemused set to his mouth, and the program will now recognize him and let him in to the penthouse, which he makes a note to do more often, since, obviously, Tim is stressed.
Images start flashing rapid fire across the screen again, and Dick suspects that Tim wouldn't be able to process the words if they went even half as fast.
"Little brother," he says softly, gently as he stills the teen's wrist. Tim's eyes dart to him, circles underneath growing with every passing breath. Dick's thumb strokes the porcelain-pale skin slowly in what he hopes is a soothing manner. "I'm staying, m'kay? I'm gonna help you with the research, because it's more than a little obvious that you haven't slept in at least a day. Is that okay?"
Tim's eyes flash. "Thirty-four hours." He's referring to the number since he last slept, but can't seem to find the words. "And…I guess that's alright."
Four of Alfred's Double Chocolate Chunk cookies and half an hour later, Dick has emailed Bruce all the intel he'll need to get this new thug of Penguin's, but more importantly, Tim has fallen asleep on the couch next to him. Dick hacks his brother's phone, sets all alarms to 'silent,' and covers him up. As he slips out into the golden light of Gotham's morning air, he makes a note to get that kid some plants or something. Maybe if he has to remember to water the flowers he could remember to feed himself.