[ Tim flashes an equally fleeting smirk back at him. It doesn't stick around, but it's the cue needed to slide into a more presentable version of himself. Like an actor fixing his face before walking onstage.

He elbows Kestrel in the side, none too gently. Gotta make sure he feels it through the armor. ]

Metaphorically you. I don't think I have it in me to be you. I'm not imposing enough to carry it off. That's a compliment.

[ Tim is never capable of running a crime significant. Too short, too hoity toity, too upfront about his education, too well-mannered, too chirpy - he's the bookie they all call Four Eyes or the Consigliere named Pretty Boy if he's lucky. He's not who they'd follow.

When the smile fades, Tim rubs at the side of his neck, where there's a newer scar half-tucked under his collar. A bullet wound that now hides a faded knife scare. ]

That... puts things in a different perspective. He came down hard on me when I got shot. I thought it was because me being hurt reminded him of you. I mean - I know it was I reminded him of you, but I thought it was because he had to take off the costume before taking me to the hospital. I - I think it was because it was a neck wound. Like it matters.

I don't know why I spend so much time trying to understand what he wants. There's no predictability behind what gets a good job, Robin or a hnh or no reaction at all. Save the universe, get a lecture about your new uniform.

[ He kinda suspects, though, if he separates the conversation from himself. If this were about anyone else... ]

I know what you're doing. This is how I talk to Bernard about his asshole parents, but that's different.