#god kon is SO ''friend's hot big brother'' coded he's perfect for everything about that trope its so funny | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

iphoenixrising · 7 years ago

Text

No Home for Dead Birds XI

It wasn’t long after he moved to the ‘Haven. So many people around him were dying, his father already gone, and B figured out there was no Uncle to keep him out of CPS (and those little tips helped, thanks Bruce). It was before the adoption, before he felt like he could breathe again without his chest caving in.

It was just after Cass left for Hong Kong, and he was running free in Blüdhaven, not giving much of a shit if he kept moving to the next ass hat or not. Kon and Bart were in a constant state of pissed off with him because he wouldn’t just stop and mourn, wouldn’t let them be good boyfriends, wouldn’t let them comfort him.

(At the time, he didn’t understand why it mattered so much to them, why they couldn’t let him fight out his pain like he’d always had to do.)

Dick...showed up at the terrible flophouse he was in, amazing him because after losing everything, Dick was the last person Tim expected to see anywhere near the ‘Haven. But, when his “big brother” refused to take get the fuck out for an answer, he hadn’t had the energy really to fight anymore.

(He’s been fighting for so long, hasn’t he?)

Instead, he got trapped in the whirlwind of activity that is Dick Grayson.

(It’s not the first time he’s saved me)

And Dick had gone the good brother things; he had tried so hard to get Tim out of the funk, to make sure he wasn’t going to shove the .45 in his mouth and blow his fucking head off or something.

(What a wasted effort)

A night of tolerating Dick’s presence, his light and witty banter, of being the Cindy to his Marsha, and something in his broken chest caved way.

He couldn’t have known at the time how stupid he was for kissing his long-standing crush in the first place. A year later and he would def find out.

Because at almost twenty, he’s fucking done with everything except the group of loveable assholes shuffling along around him, keeping him moving with their sheer momentum. He follows Cassie’s excitedly bouncing ass and slowly drifts to the side, just enough to slide a finger into the side pocket of Bart’s jeans while they walk through the brightly lit aisle of IKEA.

It feels stupid to do something like that, but really, the speedster is too busy talking and looking around to notice anyway. (His other best friend, however, isn’t, and does notice, a corner of his mouth quirking up.)

Gar’s shirt stretches tight over his shoulders when he points out the Dyfjord over the Hemnes since Rachel is still on board with the Tyssedal. Really, as long as it does things like hold stuff in drawers, he’s good either way (because things that will eventually hold dangerous vigilante weaponry? Those things he makes himself, so just raw materials. Seriously, he needs something that can withstand a small explosion and most of the stuff here? Would stand a chance in hell). But this gives him time to idly work on his phone, playing with the code for the first training loop while holding on to Bart’s pocket with the other. His body operates on auto-pilot as he’s balls deep in the numbers and commands, making vague noises at towel racks. As he’s been informed, he has to put all the shit together himself anyway, so he’s about to drop the Koppang and end all the mayhem.

There, mindblown.

Well, after this next span of code (because some people need special guns with the right tracking capabilities to make it, you know, a challenge. Speed and such).

He’s riding on over twelve hours of sleep before this little team-building exercise (and nice try. He knows exactly why they’re doing this, not just because Oh, since you have exercised sensible decision-making, we will reward you with shopping. Yup, sure.) But...playing along is so, so much good times that it makes him the right kind of nostalgic. Not something painful, something to choke on, but something lighter, something building all over again in those steps of affection and a mutual love for beating the ever-loving shit out of bad guys.

And it was...different, finding himself immersed with his old team to do movie night in celebration of his agreement to stay and rejoin them under new management (you know, their own). And yes, he was stupidly touched they went out on a limb and picked up the new Star Wars because, well, he’s the ultimate nerd of the group and probably always will be.

(Some people remember the little things.)

Still, much heckling and throwing popcorn at the screen is absolutely rote.

Falling asleep was definitely not his intention and should have been damn near impossible considering his sleep pattern has only become more sporadic, short and sweet bursts, in the time he’s been out on his own vigilanting it up.

The fact Conner was able to lift him without waking him, that his painfully sensitive instincts didn’t immediately alert him, kick his system into fight mode was far too telling for his peace of mind. It’s something at the very bottom of his priority list, something he can’t think about (because now is not the time for any of it, any of the should-have, would-haves, to feel like utter shit about how wrong he did them, how they should have just turned their fucking backs on him—just like Dick— because he made a fucking choice—the wrong one as it turns out) since there’s a whole lot of ‘shit we still need to do before we’re ready to break criminal heads.’

So he’s totally not thinking about the span of footage he caught from the new and improved communal floor proving that yes his system works and is crystal-fucking-clear because he saw the smirk on Rave’s face, he saw Gar snickering at him, he saw Cassie gently touch his hair, he saw Bart lay a throw over him with absurd gentleness just before Conner eased arms under him and lifted.

He shouldn’t have been shocked to wake up in the room Cassie showed him on day one (it was his from the get-go, wasn’t it?). The room for the guy they wanted as their strategist, their intel source. The two rooms are at the top of the new HQ, the secondary one prepped with a boss system (that is oddly similar to the one he built from the ground up in his Perch at the old Titan’s Tower. Hm. Coincidence, right?), work station, compact lab for analysis, and a meeting room with conference table.

All the nice things.

When he blinks owlishly around the separate bedroom, it takes too long for his brain to get with the ‘holy shit this is comfortable’ groove. It’s the first real bed he’s slept in since his last night in the Manor, not a cot, a couch, a seat, or the floor, it’s soft and perfect, molding around his body, more comfortable than he can remember being in a while. It’s enough that he really doesn’t want to get up. Is pretty good sinking back down for a few more…

When he finally manages to get somewhat conscious and use the impressive shower, he digs in the stacks of boxes in the walk-in closet, looking from something he can throw on—

And pulls out his last pre-everyone-dying Robin suit with green sleeves on the tunic and those reinforced green tights (before Conner and Bart died, before his ident was compromised, before Dad was murdered, before Bruce died, before Dick betrayed him). The sight leaves him weak-kneed, choking, trying very hard not to throw up because that shit was seriously a little out of left field.

(And if he sat in that closet for twenty minutes while his eyes got hot and full, holding that piece of his life while thinking about how Dick’s hands pulled this very tunic off him the last time before it ended up in a box, then no one would be the wiser because after he was done, he pulled his shit together, stood the fuck up, and closed that suit back up in the box to gather dust again when he should really send it straight to Dick with a huge fuck you sign attached. But nope, it’s his last vestige of the life he used to love, so until he could even take it, the damn thing would stay.)

The unlabeled boxes are full of his old things, things he’d apparently left in in the Tower before the last good-bye from the Justice League. Which is another thing he is not going to think about, but shoves those moments, out of his sight, and digs in another to pull out a pair of slightly too-small sweats and a nerd t-shirt that smell like Kevlar and spice, one that hangs off him because taller yes, but lacking some pounds apparently.

And yes, he realizes the bathroom is stocked with his brand of shampoo and body wash (and fuck, there’s even a can of that shitty hair gel—no more of that fuck-you-very-much). Yes, he realizes the sheets are blue instead of red (but not that blue, Nightwing blue, thank God). Yes, he realizes the yoga mat under the bed is worn and have-I-seen-that-before? Yes, he realizes the medicine cabinet has his favored brand of tape to wrap his hands so the owfuck isn’t so painful after a night cracking heads together.

(There’s antibiotics there—someone found out about the spleen thing, right?)

Really, he doesn’t need any more evidence—they planned on adding him to the roster, made a place for him, made sure his stuff wasn’t just tossed out in a dumpster when the new team started moving in.

(He wouldn’t have even blamed them for it, really.)

It’s a tough enough realization to make him facepalm for several long moments because these guys.

Seriously.

Coming downstairs to the team gathered for lunch, a plate set out for him, and excited chatter while a po’ boy is absently set in front of him along with a grape fucking Zesti (grape is always the best). All the plans they already have mapped-out, their contingencies and safe houses, their contacts and info sources, layers the conversation around him while he scarfs his food down, moving in time with everyone else chewing rather than really eating. Instead, he listens to how they’ve started gathering their own network of crime fighting and superheroing.

Within the fire few bites, he was done for.

The bus tickets out of New Orleans he’s had carefully stowed away were thrown in the trash an hour or so later before he started down to look at the training room on the lower level Gar had half-rigged up, a mess of wiring still needed to be run, lights needed to be connected, the AI that had been adapted from an old team project needed to be installed, and just the vents, man. How could you forget to booby trap the vents?

(Okay, so they need him for shit like this)

But it’s odd and comforting to have the them pause, gazes swinging to him to when he starts talking, laying out the power grid and system configurations, when they take his opinions as that’ll work, how long until we can get started?

As much as he’s freaked out by the attention after being his own team, it eases the raw and jagged edges he refused to focus on, to give power to anymore.

(It’s time to start moving again, asshole, in Robin’s old voice in the back of his head, the voice of variable reason. Except in matters of Dick Grayson apparently.)

But it’s fine because it’s not like he didn’t expect more of these little things to look forward to. You know, the whole team bonding thing. He gets it, he really does because most of it is them trying to figure him out all over again, sizing him up. The last few months of playing the game, being the nameless, travelling vigilante, had taken its toll. He knows he’s different, he knows he’s not the same Robin, not even Red, not even Tim in too many respects. When they get done with this little outing, he has every intention of sitting them down and laying the plan right out.

(And fuck, he has a plan again—he has plans.)

For now, he’s just raises a brow at Conner and nods his head to the Koppang. The super winks behind his fake, dark-rimmed glasses and subtly veers off from the group. He’s the smart one, not getting in on this little argument.

The group shuffles, pulls him along with the forward momentum. He’s already decided how he’s going to lay out their systems once the immediate needs are identified, then get scans up and running, get their basics ready to fill in the gaps between the other superhero groups. A database of their baddies, strengths and weaknesses, bolt holes and last-knowns. He needs algorithms to track credible sources for any kind of intel they might need to keep track.

He starts when Conner lays a hand on his shoulder, the conversation running around him lost in the multiple contingencies he’s got running in his primary processes as warm-up.

“Tim? Food after this, dude, since you’re driving the truck. Gar’s license is expired and I don’t trust Bart behind the wheel of anything that goes over ten miles an hour.”

He immediately bites down on his lip before Bart even does the speedster double-take with an offended squawk, “wh-wh-what?! I am totally trustworthy driving—“

“—off a cliff,” Cassie fills in, humming to herself while pushing the flat cart with the boxes all loaded.

“—into a wall,” Gar seconds with a wink.

Rave just pats Bart’s shoulder but doesn’t even try.

“All of you suck,” Bart bickers back, “that one time was totally not my fault, dammit—“

And it’s just so crazy that he’s laughing under the cover of one hand while looking obediently at the bathroom towels Cassie is asking about while she shakes her head in mirth at all the antics or stands in front of the full-length mirror Raven suggests he could use.

“Okay, so next we need—”

“Wall cabinets.”

Gar, Raven, Cassie, and Bart pause in the mission, turn to blink at him because he’s been pretty quiet since coming down to breakfast after pulling a Rip Van Winkle.

“I need some wall cabinets,” he specifies with a half-shrug.

“Righteous.” Gar grins wide, the projectors taking away the slightly longer canines along with the whole green thing. He seriously looks like a surfer from Cali, and that? Is completely believable. “They have, like, the mirrored ones, dude. I totally had to have a set.”

“I already know my ass looks fantastic in tights, man. We can go practical on this one,” he deadpans back, moving to lead the way without taking his finger from Bart’s pocket.

It’s telling when Rave is the one that laughs out loud, but, well, he gets the mirrored ones any damn way.

A few days later, he takes a tour of a nice place in Faubourg Ste. Marie on Marseille Street for his daytime pseud (and...he’s really going to be Tim Drake again, like, being back in the real world, isn’t he?) to do crazy things— like start establishing residency.

It’s been awhile since he’s been that guy, but still, the knowledge never really left his brain pan. The suit is cut perfectly (reminding him of another life), and he falls back into the old space, charming the realtor with stories of Gotham City (the most crime-ridden in America. “Oh my! The things you must have seen.” You really have no idea), and bringing another industry to the booming town.

He doesn’t take the first place, but circles four more he wants to look at in her handbook, smiles when he hands it back, and she’s slightly breathless when she guarantees she’ll have the keys for them tomorrow morning.

He also mentions being in the market for office space—something large to house a substantial crew for the newest main office of Drake Industries.

HQ is closer to 60% up and running (because at least someone can get everyone moving when things like wiring and panelling needs to be done—some of you can fly, do this thing) when Miles Kelsey comes down from Gotham with the official paperwork. It’s three small letters that have already been attached to his name under the Wayne Enterprise heading (just a formality to keep Bruce’s legacy out of the hands of Hush and Ra’s). But it mean more now. Not a deflection, not a ploy, not because of do or else. It’s his choice this time since, well, the reason for those hint drops in his voicemail? He’s going to turn twenty-one in a few months, and the whole shebang is going to be offered up, get a Drake back in control of the company. Miles is the one that wanted him to know in advance, maybe start early, get a jump on everything, and figure out if this is what he wants.

Thanks for looking out, man. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.

Miles hasn’t changed at all since he last visited the offices in Gotham. The guy is and always was a powerhouse, one of the reasons he’s been on the Board of Directors for so long.

In addition to being one of his dad’s good friends, Miles has always been a voice for the interest of the people (at times, over the business model), and it’s bittersweet seeing the older man again when they meet at a cafe in the Business District to go over the details.

Tim has a smart three-piece suit on that made Cassie whistle appreciatively while the others give him the equivalent of cat calls when he gets back—you know, because they’re assholes.

He’s giving them the half-smirk that is desperately familiar and heats up his coffee from this morning (previous night whatever really).

The convo he walks in on is at—

“It would be such a bitchin’ reality show,” Gar grins, sharp and wide from his spot on the island. The littering of wiring, motherboards, random drives, parts and pieces laid out in front of him like a variable buffet of tech. There’s a bin on the floor by his stool with completed comm units ready for use. He’s got about seventy-some so far because, well dude, we go through so many of these, you don’t even know.

“No way,” Conner argues while he presses down the panini maker gingerly (the last one was not as reinforced—the parts are in the trash by his hip), “there’s no island or anything.”

“I’m thinking more Real World versus Survivor, dude.”

“With the way our lives go, Survivor would probably be more fitting.”

And yes, that’s him, hiding his grin with his mug, and shaking his head at the antics of crazy superheroes.

Cassie is still out doing research on the local universities, thinking about History and Anthropology. Raven is taking the nice background docs he “made” to establish her a real ident to the DMV so she can have a picture ID all her own (she’s been using the Rachel Roth pseud for, well, forever, but he totally gets the whole let’s make it legal kind of feel.) Bart left to go for an interview for (wait for it), a bike courier position.

(He totally didn’t facepalm. Promise.)

When he’s putting his mug in the sink, buttoning his coat regardless of the heat, Conner (now Conner Kesel, thanks to a little bit of magic, or well, shameless hacking) leans in bump their shoulders together in such a familiar move. Those blue eyes are crinkled down at him, wide and bright and—

Fuck.

“Hey Mr. CEO. This,” and there’s a finger wiggle at the suit, “not bad.”

He smirks because, well, it’s all sinking into his bones at this point. The new digs, the company, the team (his team), and things are coming together in a way he hadn’t expected it to ever again. The worst part is the slow warm coiling in low in his belly when Conner or Bart smile at him again.

Double fuck

“It’s supposed to be a cover story.”

Conner just raises a brow at him and hums.

It makes the point.

His sigh is ignored for the smoke screen it is really is, “okay, so it’s a good cover story. Establishing a believable pseud is a good rule of thumb. Cassie is going to college, Bart is working, Gar is being the lazy, rich degenerate—” earning him a “hey! Well, yeah, so true,” from said degenerate before he goes back to the comms— “Rave might start a business once she had a real ident, and…”

He waves a hand absently, “someone has to pay for it all. Why not be me?”

And Con does that thing. Crosses his arms over his chest and gives him the stare down, totally seeing the utter bullshit without fail. The question of who would fund them has never been an issue; all of them have moved and maintained a financial cushion long before they broke it off as Titans.

Tim is trying to carve out a place for himself, something that can’t be taken away, a new ident, a new set of rules and how to live’s, and the meta-human can recognize it before Tim himself really can.

It’s one of those crazy moment where, if they were still that Superboy and that Robin, he would cuff the vigilante on the shoulder and tell him not to be a dumb ass (or when they were that Kon, Tim, and Bart, he would grip those hips and talk his ex-boyfriend out of his own headspace of insecurities). Instead, he lifts a hand to the back of the CEO’s neck, squeezing gently and turning Tim to look him in the eye.

“Don’t think you have to do it for any other reason than you want to.” Conner admonishes, “we’ve got plenty of resources, and you know it. People are grateful when you save them and the donations have always been put aside. If there’s one thing we don’t need, it’s money, Tim.”

And Conner watches those eyes blink quickly in surprise, the head tilt just slightly when the guy with the plan is faced with a fact he hadn’t considered.

Conner just leans down a little, raising a brow, “there’s nothing wrong with making your mark outside the mask. You want to be the Drake running your Dad’s company, then have at it. No one is going to judge you for it.”

“Conner…”

The expression on Tim’s face is so utterly painful in that moment, like his best friend is expecting some kind of admonishment, some kind of humiliation, something, that Conner just can’t stand there waiting on the outside anymore. He’s been treating Tim from some imagined distance for too long as it is.

And slowly, easily, without disturbing the two, Gar Logan slips easily out of his seat in front of the still-playing flat screen and strafes down the hall until he’s far enough away to hit the staircase (sure, Con had super hearing, but something tells him Blue might be a little busy at the moment).

He doesn’t see the super shake his head in old exasperation and pull this dumb ass in by the back of his neck, letting Tim rest his forehead right on the curve of Conner’s collarbone.

Hands are hesitant, light, high on his hips in such a familiar way that the super grins to himself because dammit Tim.

“It’s...fucking stupid isn’t it?” The vigilante asks quietly, keeping his head bowed.

“To want something to hold on to? I don’t think that’s stupid.”

The laugh is not one of those ha-ha funny ones, it’s something a little more bitter, “everyone gave their idents up, dude. What the fuck am I doing?”

“Making it your choice this time,” Conner replies easily, knowledgeably.

And for the fucking life of him, he can’t even get in a breath.

#no home for dead birds #tim drake #conner Kent #cassie sandsmark #garfield logan #rachel roth #bart allen #au #my fic #my writing

80 notes · View notes