by Weirdness Magnet and Te
July 29, 2004

Disclaimers: Not even remotely ours. Not in any *way*.

Spoilers: Fairly large ones for Gotham Adventures #12 and #44. Vaguer ones for the Gotham Knights episode "Old Wounds." Toon canon.

Summary: Dick tries to break the cycle of their family's poor communication skills. He starts by letting Tim beat the snot out of him.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Authors' Note: Te had massive issues after reading Gotham Adventures #44. Weirdness Magnet knew what she needed.

Title from Leo Buscaglia:

Perfect love is rare indeed-- for to be a lover will require that you continually have the subtlety of the very wise, the flexibility of the child, the sensitivity of the artist, the understanding of the philosopher, the acceptance of the saint, the tolerance of the scholar and the fortitude of the certain.

Acknowledgments: To LC and Jack for audiencing and encouragement. To Livia for the quote.

**

Dick doesn't want to spend this much time in the manor. He's been gone long enough that the Cave doesn't feel like home, and Bruce holds him at arm's length, which isn't unusual but these days feels like punishment.

Again.

It seems as though they take two steps back for every one forward and --

He can't care about that right now. He's on a mission.

Tim circles him, turning the staff in his hands. Dick narrows his eyes and smirks at him. Tim doesn't grin back.

Tim hasn't smiled at him in... a very long time. And just how long it took him to *realize* that is something he doesn't want to think about.

Dick dodges the strike easily, counters with a sweep that Tim dodges with equal ease. Tim tries and mostly fails to cover his impatience with an attack, a handful of solid blows that Dick blocks. He *hopes* it's just impatience, but the truth is...

Their spars are actual *fights* now, and Tim doesn't even crack that smirky half-grin of his anymore.

Tim doesn't *play* with him anymore.

And he *was* going to wait for a natural moment to bring this up, but they've already been at it for half an hour and... he's never been very patient. "What's *with* you?" Dick asks, ducking.

Tim draws his staff back and flicks his hair out of his eyes. "What? I need to train."

"I meant lately. You've been..."

"Focused?"

"I was going to say 'pissy'." Dick realizes his lunge is too deep, and Tim dodges, flips and knocks Dick's knee out from under him. Dick rolls quickly back onto his feet.

Tim doesn't even pause to look pleased with himself, just spins the staff back into a ready position.

Dick raises his staff again. "Look, I think I know what this is about. The Two-Face thing..." Three *months* ago, and had it really been that long since the two of them had actually *talked*? "I know I was hard on you, but --"

"Stop. You said I needed to make a choice. I made it. Now help me train or leave."

Dick watches the tightness, the *hardness* settle over Tim's features like a layer of stone, and his first instinct is to match it. Channel Bruce: go stoic, beat the hell out of Tim in the interest of sparring, and don't talk about anything but the mission. Let Tim live with the attitude. Treat him the *exact* same way Bruce had treated Dick when he became Nightwing. And before.

Which just kicks off the *second* instinct -- the one that actually *brought* him here today -- which is all about shutting his inner Bruce the hell *up*, and it's an effort to lower his staff and really *look* at the boy in front of him. And... God, nothing but tension, all tamped-down anger just waiting for patrol so he can let it out on whoever will be stupid enough to underestimate the kid in the tights. Dick *remembers* how that feels and how often Bruce just *left* him like that so he'd be more useful on the streets later.

He doesn't want to be Bruce. Not... not like that. And maybe he has all of Bruce's communication 'skills' when it comes to things like this, but there are other ways. He swings his own staff back to ready, and gives Tim his smirkiest come-on.

A brief -- *professional* -- nod, and Tim is in motion. Dick blocks a kick he remembers teaching Babs, a handful of Bruce's nerve strikes, and...

The rest belong to Tim. Moves he only knows because he's had almost two years to watch the kid fight. There's a *precision* to them that belongs to all of them, but they're still very clearly the moves of a small kid who expects
people to try to hurt him, and so has every intention of hurting them first.

Not for the first time, Dick wonders what they're going to do when Tim finally gets more size to go along with the training. His forearms hum with the sting of blocking those punches, and he's already seen the kid knock teeth out with them.

"Is that all?" And it's queasy-making to take all the tease out of the question, to leave it sounding bored and contemptuous, but... it does the trick.

The blows come faster, harder. There's the faint beginning of a snarl on Tim's face, the sort of thing he hasn't seen on the kid since the *first* days of training, before he'd figured out that all the frustration and pain was going to *get* him somewhere.

He makes the next few blocks as showy as he can manage, counting the bruises he'll have on his shins as marks for a good cause. He kicks Tim's fist away before it can get close and sucks his teeth. "Too slow."

The snarl gets wider. Really, all Dick has to do is be an asshole and block -- Tim's already starting to forget that he can use the staff, *too* -- and he's frankly pretty good at both.

He takes one more hit on his forearm, swallowing back the wince reflexively. He's going to spend about a week being really grateful for every micro-thin layer of armor in his gauntlets. And Tim is spinning the staff from hand to hand, nostrils flared and eyes *wild*, and Dick braces himself for a pounce that...

Doesn't come. He raises an eyebrow.

"C'mon, *attack*." The snarl is in Tim's voice, and Dick knows the kid can hear it too by the way the flush creeps into his cheeks. "This isn't doing me any fucking good. Killer fucking *Croc* won't just stand there and block. Either come at me or let me just --"

"Tim. Just... talk to me --"

There's a flare behind Tim's eyes. "We have *nothing* to talk about."

"Then yell at me." Dick takes a cautious step forward, palm up. And for a moment Tim just stares -- *glares* at him, and Dick can *see* him trying to get himself back under control. Dick bites the inside of his cheek. "Or maybe I'm just supposed to assume it's your time of the month?"

"*Fuck* you!" Tim doesn't even bother with the staff at all this time, holding it like a forgotten stick and punching Dick's hand aside with every ounce of brutality he can muster. "You *died*. You were dead, on the ground, and Bruce was off with fucking Two-Face --"

"He *had* to --"

"Shut *up*. I get it, all right? People could've died. But this isn't the first time Bruce put Two-Face first, even if no one would've died but Two-Face himself, and you and I *both* know it won't be the last."

And Tim just keeps glaring at him, *daring* Dick to say differently, but even if he *wasn't* remembering Bruce's little adventure in Harvey-obsession back when it looked like a weighted coin would drive the crazy sonofabitch to suicide...

Tim nods grimly and finally tosses the staff aside entirely. "Because 'Bruce loved Harvey.' Right, fine. Meanwhile, all *I* knew was that you were dead. *Dead on the fucking ground*. And you know what? I'm sorry that it upset me. *Next* time you're a fucking corpse, I'll do better. I'll be a good little soldier, and then maybe you won't --"

Tim's face crumples on itself and Dick watches him very carefully not-crying. Dick knows how that look feels, wanting to scream the Cave down and feeling like shit, because, after all, there's no real reason for it, right? Nobody's dead, and even if they are there's nothing *he* can do about it, and -- .

"Tim --"

Tim collects himself visibly and turns toward the free weights. "Just leave me alone, Dick."

And... no. Just no. Dick stops him by wrapping his arms around Tim's shoulders from behind. He feels Tim instinctively try to go into a half-crouch to toss his opponent, to toss *him*, but he squeezes and rests his face in Tim's hair until the fight goes out of him. Mostly.

And all he can see in his head is Tim's face at that damned warehouse, all he can hear is his own voice, ripping Tim a new one because the kid had dared to be *upset*. "God, Tim, I--"

"Don't apologize." And Dick can feel the growl in the kid's chest. "Don't you fucking *dare* apologize. Because you don't believe it, you don't *mean* it, and I don't need your fucking sympathy. Let. Me. Go."

Dick tightens his grip. "You'll have to make me," he says, trying a smile. "Because... I'm not gonna."

"I needed this three months ago, Dick. I *don't* need it now."

Not even a shiver, and nothing like a break in all the *tension*. "So it takes me a while to catch on," Dick says, doing his best to swallow back the mild smirk in his voice. "But I *have* caught on, and... God, I had no *idea*, and I *should* have, and now that I do know..." He leans in to whisper in Tim's ear. "You're gonna have to *make* me."

"Let." Dick hears Tim swallow around the harsh, throaty sound of his own voice and try again. "Let me go."

"I need this, too."

"You *don't*. You don't need *anything* from me --"

"And you *believe* that?" He *can't* keep the laugh out of his voice this time, and he slides a hand up, pulling Tim closer and resting his thumb lightly on the pulse in Tim's neck. "No, you're right. I don't need anything from you, the exact same way you don't need anything from me. So here we are, not needing anything from each other." He strokes Tim's neck with his thumb.

He was very careful to grab Tim from the back, because this way Dick can hold him up when Tim starts to sag, and press himself solidly against Tim's back when the sobs finally start. From here, he can hold Tim while he cries, but not actually *see* it.

And it's not like Tim has ever been shy about his emotions (except for the past few *months* and he's the biggest fucking idiot in the universe), it's just that if *he* were in the kid's position... he wouldn't want anyone to see it, either.

Nobody had ever had to actually say the word 'weak' for Dick to *hear* it, and he's pretty sure Tim's the same way. So he makes himself as solid and *there* as he can while Tim chokes out the dry, heaving sobs of someone who hadn't cried so long his body has forgotten how. He knows how that feels, too.

"I love you," Dick says. "I love you and I'm so sorry I let my own..." How many times has he dreamed of Bruce walking away? How many times has he *comforted* himself that he'd been the one to do it first? "That I let it get in the *way*, and you've always been so..."

Tim makes a low, incomprehensible noise and shudders, once, all over, before whispering, "I'm sorry."

Dick listens to Tim's rough, choked breathing and mentally curses himself in every language he knows, because *Tim's* apologizing, and Dick knows full well that Tim means it just as much as he doesn't think *Dick* meant his own. He can do *better* than this.

"Don't," he says in English. "You didn't do anything... I swear to God, *you* didn't do anything wrong. I just... *dammit*." He spins Tim around and holds him *that* way, because it's better to feel his shirt getting wet, to be able to feel Tim breathing against him.

"You were *dead*." Tim's voice is muffled against Dick's chest.

"I didn't mean to be." Dick can't quite manage to keep his voice steady, and a hitch in Tim's breathing tells him exactly when Tim realizes that he's crying, too.

Dick lowers them to their knees and just keeps holding on. "You know -- you *have* to know that if it was you I would've been the same way. And -- fuck. *I* knew that, and I still -- God, Tim..."

Dick squeezes him tighter, even though Tim isn't trying to get away anymore. Because it's *better*. They stay that way, huddled on the floor, until Dick's time-sense tells him that Bruce will be getting back to the Cave soon, after a long, hard day of being Bruce Wayne, billionaire. He pulls back reluctantly.

Tim knows what time it is, too. "We should get changed," he says, in a low, even voice.

Dick surveys Tim's puffy eyes and tear-streaked face and smiles ruefully. "You should wash up first." And then he scrubs over his own eyes and laughs. "We *both* should."

Not that Bruce would ever actually ask, or even say anything, and... *really* not now. He blinks and focuses, and Tim's wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

And frowning. "Okay." He rises and heads for the washroom, leaving Dick to get dressed alone.

Patrol is uneventful. A few minor robberies that aren't enough to get Dick's adrenaline going, and the most dangerous thing he experiences all night is the way Bruce *looks* at them. Dick was right about the fact that he doesn't actually say a word, but at this point that could mean pretty much anything.

It doesn't help that Tim doesn't utter one extraneous syllable for the entire night, just goes through the motions like some little pod Robin, or maybe a junior Batman.

And Dick can't decide if it's better or worse that he's convinced himself that it has more to do with the kid's lingering issues about Bruce than about him. Because, really, he always *wanted* to grow up bitter and petty.

Moreso.

They finish their sweep around four. Parting ways is still awkward even now, because the Cave hasn't been Dick's home for a while, but there's something in the way Bruce stands that hints he's expecting Dick to come back to the Manor *anyway*. This time, at least, and he can't say...

Well, over the past year he *had* been spending more time there again, especially when Babs stopped in before heading back home. But it had never stopped feeling wrong, and... not tonight.

And he can see Bruce seeing it in him by the way his mouth gets a little harder and grimmer before he turns for the edge of the roof. Tim gives him an apologetic half-shrug and turns to follow Bruce, and...

Dick puts a hand on Tim's shoulder, and watches Bruce tense, even though his back is to them both.

"I was thinking Tim could stay with me tonight." Dick says as casually as he can. "He has... well. I've got a lot of his things, still." And Dick wonders if the clothes Tim left at his place even fit anymore, because it's been so *long*, and he swallows back the self-loathing and tries to keep his game face on.

Bruce turns halfway and drops his gaze to Tim, who clears his throat. "It's... not a school night."

Bruce's mouth twitches, but all he does is nod sharply and drop off the edge of the roof, heading back alone.

Dick squeezes Tim's shoulder. "Is this... is this okay? I mean. I know I'm kind of --"

"It's fine."

"-- blindsiding you. And I just... I thought we might not be finished."

Tim puts his hand over Dick's and says, "No, we're not."

Dick was right: Tim's old clothes *don't * fit anymore.  The best Dick can offer him is a pair of sweats and a well-worn t-shirt that's several sizes too big. It's okay, though, because when Dick flops on the sofa and drags Tim on top, the over-washed cotton feels soft like skin as he rubs circles on Tim's back.

Tim laughs a little and doesn't really say anything, and Dick knows he's really pushing a *lot*, but. God, it feels good to listen to Tim laugh because of something *he* did again.

"I missed this. I missed you."

"I -- me, too."

Dick hears the "I'm sorry" in Tim's voice. Dick is trying to make everything he's doing convey "it's okay, we're okay, I'm not dead, it's okay" but everything in Tim's body is saying "I'm sorry, I love you, I screwed up," and Dick doesn't know what to *do* except dig his fingers into Tim's hair and hold him tighter.

Tim just clings right back and buries his face against Dick's throat. Dick can hear Tim start to cry a little, suck it *back* and cling harder. Tim wraps his legs around Dick's waist and holds him that way, too, and Dick stifles a chuckle at how Tim is holding on to him like a small, incredibly dangerous monkey.

It makes him think about when he's seen Tim actually *be* hugged. Dick mentally flips through his own memories, trying to come up with images of people doing it, and realizes that it was always pretty much *only* him, and that... that it's been a long time. *Too* long.

So he holds on to Tim even tighter, one arm around his back and one in his hair, and he can feel the few tears that Tim couldn't hold back sliding wet down his neck. Tim's breathing is warm and mostly regular again, and Dick nuzzles his cheek against Tim's.

"It's okay," he whispers. "I love you, it's okay." He can feel Tim sighing against his throat, and starting to breathe slower. More deeply. "I should've just dragged you to bed."

And that was *exactly* the dumbest thing he could have said right now. He feels Tim tense and freeze and Dick *winces*.

"I mean. It's easier... in a bed. I wouldn't --"

"What if. What if I want you to?"

"Tim?"

Tim squirms against him, but Dick realizes he's not trying to get away, but firming up his grip so Dick can't push him off. "I love you. I --" Tim sighs against his throat again, and Dick shivers. "I made *that* choice a... really long time ago."

"God, Tim..."

"So, if you... want that." Tim looks up, and his face is flushed and still a little tear-streaked, but his eyes are clear. "If you want to have sex with me, I'm right here."

Dick cups his cheek and wipes a forgotten tear away with his thumb. He really... has no *idea* what to say to that. The lizard part of his brain is flashing through every touch, every time a sparring match almost -- *almost* -- turned into something else, whether they were alone in the Cave or not, and the Bruce part is *glowering*, and Tim....

Tim is petting his chest through the wifebeater. And Dick isn't about to take advantage of an emotionally distraught Boy Wonder, but he's also *so* not made of stone.

"I.... I *would* like that," Dick says slowly. "But you -- *we've* been... it's been a night. And I don't want to do anything--" And maybe he wasn't precisely coherent, but he was doing *fine* right up until Tim scrapes his nail across Dick's nipple.  "Advantage taking. Don't wanna. Yeah." Dick grabs Tim's wrist. "*Stop* that. I'm being serious."

"Yeah, I could tell by your eloquence," and the smirk isn't *quite* on Tim's face, but it's dancing behind his eyes and it's so familiar, so *right* --

"Tim, seriously. I could... I'd like to, I really would. But it doesn't have to be *tonight*."

Tim nods, and Dick breathes a small sigh of relief which turns into another sound entirely when Tim slides in and kisses Dick's neck. Warm, soft on his throat and he balls his fists on Tim's back to keep from clutching him.

He feels Tim hum against his neck and shift on his lap. Dick blushes a little, because he *knows* Tim can feel his erection despite how much he wants to *not* be hard right now. But then Tim does a little grind on Dick's stomach and oh, he can feel Tim hot and *hard* inside the sweatpants, and those are *his* sweatpants Tim's wearing and he's pretty sure he's never washing those again.

Hot puff against his ear. "So drag me to bed."

Dick squeezes his eyes shut. He tells the glowering Bruce in his head to fuck off, cups Tim's ass with both hands, and carries him into the bedroom.

With Tim clinging to him, Dick doesn't really *have* to hold on, but Tim's ass fits perfectly in his hands and he likes the way Tim wriggles against him when he squeezes. He likes it more than could possibly be healthy.

He lays Tim on the bed, bracing himself over him. Tim is still hanging on, and Dick has a feeling that Tim isn't going to let him get very far away.

"You sure about this?"

"Yes," Tim says, with his voice and with the way his knees are digging in -- almost -- hard enough to be painful. Dick slides one hand up to tangle in Tim's hair.

"We don't... we don't have to do everything. And if you want me to stop, just say the word."

"I'm not gonna stop you," Tim says quietly, and curls up for a kiss.

No, a *kiss*, because Tim kisses like a drowning man getting a gulp of air. There might be finesse when he's not quite so desperate for it -- Dick isn't actually *sure* how much experience the kid has -- but for now Dick just tries to keep up with Tim's searching, devouring mouth. Tim bites and sucks along the line of Dick's jaw, pulling off only to yank Dick's thin tank top over his head before planting his mouth on Dick's nipple and *biting* hard enough to make Dick buck.

Tim's arms and legs are wrapped around him, holding him in place while he bites bruises along Dick's skin. He *lingers* on the scars on Dick's chest, and Dick shudders at the feel of Tim's tongue trailing hot and slick across them. Dick forces his fists to unclench enough that he can push Tim *off*, and he has to ignore the nearly hurt look Tim gives him so he can get Tim's shirt off with something resembling grace.

Pale, pale skin and not as many scars as Dick had at his age. Maybe the real difference between life as a circus kid and life as a street kid. Dick rolls them over so Tim is straddling his lap, making it easier for Dick to bite and suck Tim's chest. All the places where the kid just *might* have scars someday, and everywhere else, too.

His nipples are hard against Dick's tongue, and he bucks and gasps like he can't get enough air. And really, he probably can't with Dick twisting one while he traces circle around the other with his tongue. Dick just holds him in with his free hand, growling a little at the feel of Tim's spine curving as he leans back. At the feel of Tim's erection grinding into his stomach, and Dick grins around the nipple in his mouth.

And gives the other a sharp twist, reveling in Tim's half-scream, before pulling off. "You like that?"

"Dick." It's a gasp and a plea. So he does it again.

Tim *arches* and Dick growls a little louder and rolls them back over. Tim lands on his back and Dick slides between his thighs easily, wonderfully, grinding their cocks together through the sweats. He can smell Tim's arousal and he knows he must be getting the sweats dark, *wet*, and he absolutely wants to see that, but he can't stop staring at Tim's face. Heavy-lidded eyes and panting mouth, and Dick catches both of Tim's nipples between his fingers and twists.

And then he does it again, and again, and Tim bucks and writhes and his face is so beautiful Dick can't stop *looking*. Tim is begging, pleading and Dick wants to give him everything and *has* to move with him, meeting each roll of his hips, and Tim covers Dick's hands with his own. Not to stop him, just to hold *on*.

"Please, Dick, I -- you're -- oh -- *oh*..." Tim arches and trembles, and Dick feels *heat* between them and gently strokes Tim's nipples until he stills.

Dick smiles and nuzzles Tim's cheek, kissing him softly until his breathing slows. God. Just playing with his nipples. Tim's going to *kill* him. The lizard part of Dick's brain can't wait.

"I meant," Tim gasps, "to make that better."

Dick grins a little wider. "It was *great* for me."

"We're still wearing *pants*. And you're still hard."

"You can fix that."

"I can't *move*."

"Wuss." Dick tugs at Tim's sweats, dragging them off. The sweats got the worst of it, but Dick leans down and licks Tim, anyway. Tim gasps and clutches at Dick's hair, and Dick makes it as gentle as he can, but Tim's cock twitches *hard* and far too soon. God bless the teenage sex drive.

He winces at the sharp tug on his hair. "Don't," Tim says weakly.

Dick smiles and crawls up Tim's body. He kisses him softly, licking his way in, tracing a free hand down Tim's chest to rest on his hip, just to cup it for a moment. Tim's body fits so *perfectly* in his hands, and it just makes Dick want to touch him everywhere, and learn all the places that make Tim *clutch* him like he's doing now, like he can't get enough and he's not about to let Dick get  *away*.

He feels Tim shoving his sweatpants down, and moans into Tim's mouth when he wraps his callused hand around Dick's shaft. The touch is an exploration rather than a stroke, hardened fingertips tracing the curves and ridges, finding the spot beneath the head that makes him pulse. He breaks off the kiss, pressing his face into Tim's neck and muffling the sounds with smooth, sweat-slick skin.

"You like that." Tim sounds far too pleased with himself.

"Mm-hmm," Dick purrs and then groans as Tim teases the slit with his thumb. Tim rubs the wetness around the head, and he does... *something* to the head of Dick's cock that makes Dick's whole body twitch.

"You like that a *lot*."

"Oh, *fuck*."

"What do you want me to do?" Tim's voice is low and *hungry*.

Dick shudders a breath on Tim's throat. "You're doing fine."

Tim tightens his grip and starts to stroke him steadily. "I want to make it better."

Dick thrusts helplessly and laughs a little. "That's a good start."

"I want to make you come."

"You will, just... ow. I think we need lube or something."

"Sorry." Tim loosens his grip.

"Not your fault. I have such delicate skin..." Dick grabs a bottle off the nightstand. "Give me your hand." He pours a small pool of oil into Tim's cupped hand.

"Body oil?"

"Shut up."

"I didn't say a *word*." Tim's smirk is miles wide, but his slicked hands glide over Dick's shaft. Dick braces himself on his elbows and thrusts as Tim's hands play with his cock. He loses himself in the touch until he realizes there's only one hand pumping him and Tim's other hand is teasing his ass. Little slick circles and Dick means to protest -- they really *don't* have to do everything -- but he can only manage gasps before a too-slick finger slides in the next time he bucks.

*In* him and not very deep, more of a tease, and Tim bites Dick's jaw and rubs his new erection against Dick's old one. "Dick. Dick, fuck me. I need you to."

"Tim," It's more of a groan than he meant, but the insinuating finger is pushing deeper. He knows Tim is looking for his prostate, and knows he won't put up much of an argument once Tim finds it. About *anything*. "Tim, pull out. Now."

He smirks at Tim's half-concealed "drat, thwarted" expression as he pulls out. Tim hasn't stopped rubbing his cock, though, just keeps stroking firmly and steadily, teasing his slit with his thumb. Dick sits up on his knees, pulls Tim's hands away and pins them on the mattress.

"Are you *sure*?"

"Yes." No hesitation at all, and Dick strokes Tim's wrists with his thumbs and squeezes, because Tim just spreads his legs wider and plants his feet.

Dick closes his eyes and forces himself to release Tim's wrists, leaning in for another kiss and grabbing the oil.

One finger makes Tim buck hard. Dick goes slowly, pushing in all the way and letting Tim get a feel for it, letting *himself* get a feel for all that tight heat. For Tim. He can feel Tim's prostate against his finger, and waits until Tim looks almost relaxed before crooking his finger.

He rides it out when Tim arches completely off the bed, licking his teeth and pumping his hips at nothing, *against* nothing, because there's a flush spilling down Tim's chest, and stroking Tim soothingly is just an excuse to *touch* him more.

Dick pulls out and watches Tim pant. "You're going to love this." And he comes back with two.

"Nnn, oh fuck, oh fuck, *Dick*--"

"Breathe. It's okay. You want me to stop?" It comes out gritted, unconvincing to his own ears. Tim's so *tight* --

"N-no, it's -- it's weird, but it's good." Tim swallows and writhes, a little. "Do. Do that thing again."

"You mean --" Dick pushes in and crooks."-- that?"

Tim arches and screams, and Dick fucks him that way, rubbing that pleasure-lump and listening to Tim. His own cock twitches *hard* and he's leaking and he isn't going to last long at all.

"Oh God, God, I'm gonna --"

"Not yet," Dick murmurs, pulling out. Tim's body *convulses*, and he doesn't come but Dick can tell he was *damn* close, so he slicks his cock quickly. "Not yet. I want to come with you."

"Dick..." Tim pleads.

"I'm close," Dick whispers, pushing all the way in and *holding* Tim tightly as he arches into it. "I'm really close, it won't take long... god, watching you, you're so sexy..."

He tries not to thrust too hard, too fast, but Tim is tight and *moving* with him, his arms and legs wrapped around Dick's body. Dick moves steadily, slowly as he can, but then Tim cups his ass with both hands and *pulls* Dick deeper.

"Harder," Tim groans. "I can take it, do it... do it *harder*..."

"*Fuck*, Tim." The last of Dick's control just *breaks* in his brain, and he has to bury his face against Tim's neck, grab his hip, and *push* himself in as hard as he can, again and again. Tim just hangs *on*, gasping with every thrust and using his feet and hands to pull Dick in *more*, like Dick could fuck him through the mattress and right through the floor and it still wouldn't be hard enough.

"Dick, I can't -- oh God -- "

"*Yes*, come for me, oh fuck, I -- *Tim*..."

White out of his vision and he can't move, can't breathe. Heat everywhere, on him and *around* him, and Tim's voice in his ears crying his name and he can't *think*. Dick doesn't feel anything except *yes* and *good* until some part of his brain registers Tim petting his hair. It takes long moments until he can get his hands under him enough to lift up and look at Tim.

Who's grinning at him, just like... *God*, it's been too long.

"Hi." Tim's voice is *way* too chipper.

"Hi," he breathes, and locks his elbows to keep his arms from shaking.

"You okay?"

Is *he* okay? Except that it's kind of an excellent question. "... Yeah. You?"

"Yeah. Just. Don't ask me to walk anytime soon." Tim's grin turns rueful and Dick winces.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." His eyes are serious, watchful, and he strokes Dick's cheek with the tips of his fingers. Dick feels like he should be doing a better job of the post-coital banter thing, but he can't get his brain to work right now.

He *does* manage to roll off of Tim -- gently -- and falls in a heap beside him. The sheets soak up the oil and sweat, and they *so* need a shower. Dick doesn't care about that right now. He drags Tim over him like a small, bony blanket, rests the boy's head on his chest and holds on.

Dick's internal clock and the pale sunlight coming in the windows tells him that it's close to six. He thinks about getting up and shutting the drapes, but that involves gross motor skills he doesn't have quite yet.

"Almost dawn," Tim says idly.

"Mm-hmm."

"I should probably --"

"No."

Tim lifts his head.

"I'm not ready to stop doing this yet," Dick says, squeezing him.

"I was going to say, 'I should probably call Bruce and tell him I'll be home in time for patrol.' But if you'd rather I say, 'Sorry Bruce, Dick needs more cuddle-time', I *suppose* I could..."

"Nah, you should tell him, 'Sorry, Bruce, Dick fucked me six ways from Sunday and I can't walk right now.'"

"Jerk." Tim grins and settles back on Dick's chest.

They lay there as the sun creeps higher in the sky.

"One of us should shut the drapes," Dick mutters.

"It's your house."

"You're more awake."

"Okay. Here I go." Tim doesn't move.

"Nice job."

"Thanks," he says, and his smile is soft and palpable on Dick's skin. "I'm proud of my work."

The sunlight touches the edge of the bed.

"We should shower," Tim mutters.

Dick strokes Tim's hair. "Mm. And eat."

"You have food?"

"I always have food."

Tim grin shifts and sharpens against his chest. "I mean *good* food."

"I have food."

"Swear to god, if you make me anything involving wheat grass, I'm calling Bruce."

Dick grins and tugs on a lock of Tim's hair. "He'll just make you eat something involving *alfalfa*."

"... He totally would."

"You're safer here with me and my tofu."

"I doubt that."

Dick lets himself doze a little, playing with Tim's hair, but it doesn't take long before the sunlight is impossible to avoid. He drags the covers over their heads and pauses.

"Okay, that's it. We need a shower," he declares.

"Mmph. And food," Tim says, nuzzling Dick's chest idly.

"But mostly a shower. You're sticky."

"*I'm* sticky?"

"Fine. *We're* sticky. But when I say 'we', I mean 'you'." He's pretty sure he can *feel* Tim's eye-roll, and it's just something else to wallow in, to *clutch*. He completely owns his need for emotional life preservers.

Tim sighs. "C'mon. Shower time," he says, and tugs against Dick's grasp. "Um, Dick? The whole going-to-get-a-shower thing works better if you let go."

"Nope."

"Nope?"

"Not gonna." Dick drags Tim in and nuzzles his neck.

"No, really, it's too warm under here and we're sticky and I'm starving. Let go."

"See, the last time you told me to let go, it led to sex. So there's no incentive."

Tim sighs again and says, in his most reasonable voice, "If you let go, there can be showers and food, which would make it possible for me to have more sex."

Dick peers up at him. "Possible?"

"Highly likely. Probable, even."

"See, *that's* incentive." And if he's thinking more about the light dancing in Tim's eyes -- the one that's for *him* -- than about the chance to molest the kid again... well, he isn't sure.

It has to be better, or at least not *worse*.

Tim actually giggles before he gets up, and Dick lets him go. To a point. He hangs on to Tim's hand.

"Uh, Dick? I'm gonna need that."

"I'm showering with you."

"So I guessed," he says, and pointedly raises an eyebrow in a way that Dick hopes to God never actually *reminds* him of Bruce, despite the fact that he knows it's where Tim *got* it from. "But, at some point, you're going to have to let go, because holding hands while on patrol is going to give Gotham's criminal element ideas." He snorts. "*More* ideas."

"I will, it's just..." Dick sprawls across the bed and plays with Tim's fingers. "I *am* going to let go, just... even when I do? I haven't, really. So... y'know, try to remember that." And that made some kind of sense in Dick's head, it really *did*, and he really sucks at talking coherently about feelings, but when he looks up Tim is...

Tim is looking at him. And squeezing his hand.

"Shower time," Tim tells him.

"Right."

He lets Tim lead him into the bathroom.

~end