Disclaimer: I don't own.
Summery: Its so short, does it need one? Roy and Dick talk.
Rating: PG-13 for the bad werds.
"I think you're getting worked up about nothing," Dick Grayson said
coolly as he removed another beer from his refrigerator.
"He doesn't return my calls," Roy said angstfully, taking another
swig of his own microbrew. It was why he didn't have a problem
dropping in on his buddy unexpectedly—Dick always bought the
"He's kind of busy."
"Busy bonding with his long lost son, taking in some GIRL, who's
probably going to be Speedy any week now, and screwing Black Canary.
Have I covered all the reasons why he hasn't called me?"
Dick sighed and sat down. "Well, you got a lot of catch-up to play,
when people come back from the dead."
"He didn't lose ANY time with Dinah or finding a new side-kick," Roy
"Maybe you should go there and talk to him," Dick pointed out, taking
a draw off his beer.
Roy scowled. "Maybe you should shut up."
"Maybe you should stop being a sissy, and go talk to him."
"Maybe you should REALLY shut up, before I punch your head in."
Dick rolled his eyes. "Firstly, I'd like to see you try. Secondly,
you're being a sissy about this. You just call him up and say hey,
Ollie, how're you doing? Or you say hey, just wanted to check and see
how the living thing was going for you… or… hey, you wanna do
something this weekend…"
"I ain't calling him," Roy ground out.
"Then stop in and surprise him."
Roy folded his arms over his chest and growled like an angry
tiger. "You have some kind of fucking bug up your ass, you know that?
You don't talk to Bruce for four years, and that's just freaking fine
and dandy, but Ollie's alive again for like two months, and I ain't
called him and suddenly I'm a shitty sidekick."
"You said it, not me."
"I didn't say—look. I'm not calling him. If he wants to talk to me,
he's gotta call me."
Dick smacked his forehead. "And he's probably thinking to
himself: `I'm not calling Roy first, he has to call ME first.' So
basically neither of you is ever going to talk to the other, and
you're both going to go around each hates the other, all because
you're too stupid to pick up the fricking phone."
The red headed Titan nodded with resolve. "That'd be the short of
* * *
"He's a leach of Nightwing's time, and total distraction," Batman
Oliver Queen continued to bench press enough weights to be impressive
to anyone other than the Bat, not really caring that his workout was
being invaded. "Then I've taught the boy well."
"HE is distracted. And if Arsenal is distracted, he will be a danger
to himself, if not his teammates."
"That kid knows how to focus on stuff when he needs to," Ollie shot
Batman scowled. "That's not the point. Arsenal deserves the benefit
of a phone call."
"If he wants to talk to me, he'll know where he can find me."
Batman drew his cape tighter around himself, in just the manner that
irritated Green Arrow so much. "And likely, knowing Arsenal, he is
saying the same exact thing."
"Your point thus being?"
"Don't be an ass, Queen. Call the kid." That being said, Batman
Oliver pressed a few more repetitions before sitting up. Resting his
arms on his knees, he chewed on his cheek and sucked in a few deep
breaths. Slowly, his eyes turned to the table near the door, and
phone resting on it.
One lip twitched, and he rose, walking towards it. He stopped just
short of the doorway, contemplating the green molded receiver. The
thumb of one hand raised to his lips, and he scratched along the edge
of his goatee and lingered there a moment.
With a sigh, he continued on out the door and to the kitchen. His
gaze avoided the phone on the wall, and attached themselves to the
two dirty cookie sheets littering the counter.
"Damned foul mouth kid, never cleans up after herself," he grumbled,
grabbing both trays and pushing them into the sink. "And Conner
probably finished `em, like he ain't ever seen cookies before. Ta
hell with making sure the old man gets some."
Turning the water on, he let it run hot before scrubbing vigorously
with a plastic scrubber. Rinsing the first quickly, he deposited it
into the dish rack. With a sigh of frustration, he stared out the
window in front of him. "I ain't doing it!" he called out
loudly. "Fricking Dark and Creepy, who went four years without
calling his kid is telling ME to call Roy. I ain't doing it, you hear
me? And I know you hear me."
* * *
"So… you aint changed your cell number," Ollie noted.
"Nope. Same number. Better phone."
"The fascist pigs at the phone company--"
"I know, Ollie."
There was a sharp, knife-twisting silence that seemed to go on and
on, like a bloody, messy homicide.
"So like… it's nice that you're alive and stuff."
"You ain't corrupting your kid, are you?" Oliver said nearly at the
"Only against The Man, store-bought chili and the Bat."
It turned into a murder-suicide shortly thereafter as the silence
returned and neither dared to speak.
Roy took in a deep sucking breath. "Anyways…"
"Glad you're alive."
"Take care of the kid."
* * *
The spraying rain collected on Nightwing's hair and ran down his
mask. In a brief moment of freefall between buildings, he passed the
back of his gloved hand across his brow, removing the majority of the
"I can't believe we're having this conversation," the young man
growled as his line snapped tight and he began swinging through the
long trench that was Wells Street.
"I was simply…"
"I said I can handle it," Nightwing snapped into his communications
system. He flew through the cool fall drizzle and landed hard on his
next building, almost slipping on the wet stone roof.
"All I'm advising--"
"I have it."
"I didn't say you didn't," came Batman's sharp retort in his ear.
Nightwing stood stark still on the roof in protest. He scowled into
the darkness. "You don't think I can do anything by myself."
"Then I think I can do this on my own. White pizza, everything on it.
No anchovies. GOD. You don't trust me." Nightwing shut off his
communicator in frustration. Still standing in the misting rain, he
huffed once, and then went back to his business.