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Sport us while we may, part one
Sport us while we may
by Te
January 24, 2008

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Plays fast and loose with the last two and a half years or so of canon. Some things are used, others are not. Takes place in a nebulous sort of now.

Summary: Tim vs. A Habit of Circumspection.

Ratings Note/Warnings: Sexual content which does and does not dovetail with the content some readers may find to be disturbing.

Author's Note: Betty wondered aloud what would happen if comics!Tim were dosed with the no-fear gas from Gotham Knights/TNBA. ALL her fault.

Acknowledgments: Much love and sincere gratitude to Pixie, Jack, and Mildred, all of whom went above and beyond the call of audiencing duty, held my hand, listened to me whine, and generally helped make this story much better than it otherwise would've been. All must hail.

Complete story here.
Fear is not the natural state of civilized people. --Aung San Suu Kyi

Perhaps it's petty, but Tim uses his first batarang to take out Scarecrow's voice synthesizer -- he's really just not in anything *like* the mood for Eldritch Tones.

Scarecrow had afflicted the inhabitants of three local firehouses with pyrophobia, and then had proceeded to torch several old warehouses and one school. Batgirl has his back, and, to the best of his knowledge, they've gotten the civilians clear. This --

Is just the endgame.

And Crane clutching his throat and hacking like a smoker is an excellent start, as far as Tim is concerned. The trick, as ever, is to move quickly and carefully, leading -- or fighting -- the man away from his stash of chemicals and into some nice, quiet, safe-for-residual-pummeling area.

The second batarang cuts Crane's bag of tricks right off his shoulder -- and, if Tim is *any* sort of judge -- damages that shoulder nicely.

Crane's stumbling in the wrong direction, but the third batarang puts a stop to that, and Tim considers, idly, just doing it *this* way. He's not the sort of Robin who can just beat down evil-doers at will, after all, and there's a satisfying sort of *cleanliness* to doing this from a distance --

No. Crane is far more of a runner than a fighter, and there's no good reason to prolong the inevitable -- especially since they're a little too close to the second civilian gathering area he and Batgirl had designated. Tim closes fast, allowing himself just a *little* room to relish having an opponent for whom Tim's relatively weak body blows are as effective as nerve-strikes.

Crane coughs, staggers, curses --

And Tim's kick sends him flying a little too far. He's grabbing at his own abdomen and trying to kick himself backwards, and this is, perhaps, where Tim can say something clever, something funny and more than a little mean, just to put a Robin-style cap on things...

Better to kick the man onto his stomach and pull a zip-strip. Tim drops into a crouch --

There's something in his left hand, and it's simple reflex to jab for the wrist to make him drop it --

Gas. And -- hell. He should've been masked even though there were no sign of gas canisters, just vials -- No, get the job done, ignore the prickle in his sinuses, ignore the feel, zip those wrists tight and keep moving, keep going, he can't let Crane take him out of the game. Tim zips the man's ankles, too, and bounces his face -- lightly -- off the floor. He pockets the small black canister, triggers the macro that will -- eventually -- get the MCU to this location, and stands.

Breathes. He feels -- no, not yet. Better to get himself up and out. He gives Batgirl the high-sign and the signal that he'll be heading back to base and moves. So far, so good. He's not afraid of heights, or jump-lines, or pigeons, or gargoyles.

Cars don't make him want to urinate on himself, and neither does his motorcycle. Gotham's darkness is no more full of potential terror than it ever is -- less, perhaps. It's always good to take down one of the big guys. Always -- freeing, in some way, he thinks.

It's what he's *here* for, really, what makes him necessary and right for the tasks he's been given, and the responsibilities he's taken for himself. He feels exactly as good as he should, especially considering the fact that the firefighters will recover with a lot of rest and liquids.

He feels --

The intersection of Aparo and Forty-Fifth is one of the worst in the city, and Tim has exactly enough time to think that before he has to swerve, leap up onto the seat, and then ditch for the nearest car roof. Someone ran a red light, someone else is having a very bad night. Tim smells gas in the seconds before fire -- *more* fire blooms and billows up into the night.

The screams seem to come too slowly, too off-handedly for the caliber of the disaster which is currently unfolding. The little sub-compact that had taken the brunt of the accident's force is burning like a torch, and Tim can make out at least three children through the flickering light.

At least some of the sirens he hears have to be heading right here, but they're not going to be fast enough.

Tim takes a breath and pulls on the flame hood, seating the rebreather as comfortably as possible, leaps off the roof of the station wagon, and moves in. Some of the screams are of 'Robin,' now, and Tim has a fleeting desire to straighten his cape. No time for that sort of thing.

The passenger door is crumpled so badly there's no point even trying it, the driver's side door is merely jammed. Tim pulls the jimmy from the back of his belt and works it in, noting the heightened smell of plastic which always comes when the uniform's materials get overheated.

He can feel himself starting to sweat.

He can feel --

There, he's in. He convinces the couple in the front seat to stop trying to get their children out first by the simple expedient of slicing their seat-belts and yanking them free -- through the fire he's standing in. Once they're out, he gets the driver seat folded forward. The children don't hesitate, and they'd gotten their young sibling -- impossible to tell the gender -- free of his or her car seat.

"Good. *Go*."

They do, and Tim can wrap the infant in a fold of his cape and move -- the driver of the other car.

As it happens, the young man seems to have swum in something distilled, and is thus as much of a fire hazard as everything else. Tim cuts *him* free of the safety belt --

And dodges two surprisingly quick and effective-seeming punches. And then the man -- tries to light a cigarette. Tim snorts and nerve-strikes him, crouches enough to get him into a fireman's carry, and jogs for the...

It's probably not right to think of the ring of onlookers as 'the sidelines,' but, well, le mot juste has no care for what lesser beings think of as 'appropriate.'

And the explosion makes everyone back up nicely.

Tim pulls his cape from around a small child with a very expensive-looking camera phone, grins, salutes, and shoots his grapple. He still has to get back to the Cave and figure out what, exactly, he'd been dosed with.

He feels fine. He feels *great*, adrenaline humming through him like liquid flame -- just enough to make his jock interesting.

So far, *whatever* he's on is letting him do what he needs to do without difficulty, but -- but.

Oh.

He's not afraid, at all.

He *wasn't* afraid, and he isn't, now, and --

Oh.

Tim cups the pocket with the canister in it and just -- catches his breath. It won't, actually, be any easier to do without the hood and the rebreather, but he pulls them back and off, anyway. He needs the air, smoke-tinged and all. He needs to...

Oh, there's just no question. And *that*, in and of itself...

Tim laughs and tosses the canister right into the midtown inferno.

"Didn't anybody tell you not to litter, birdboy?"

Jason. Interesting. Tim cocks his head. There's no way for Jason to see the scar he'd given Tim with the cape and tunic in the way, but sometimes it's the thought that counts. "Following me or just headed for the weenie roast?"

"I don't like it when parts of my city go boom," he says, and steps out of the shadows.

"Some people don't have *any* consideration," Tim says, and tilts his head to catch more of the breeze. The sweat drying on his face doesn't -- quite -- itch. "There's nothing here for you." Even Tim's bike is a dead loss. Pity.

"*That's* funny. I just don't seem to recall asking for your opinion."

The swagger, the growl... Tim knows, deep in his bones, that it's at least partially for show. Jason Todd has an image to maintain -- and pound into Gotham's streets until everyone knows it. It's just that Tim also knows that it could very well be the prelude to a beating. Tim smiles and lets his cape hide a little of the way he's shifting his legs. "My mistake. I'm feeling gregarious."

"Daddy spike your Zesti-Ade?"

"Something like that," and Tim smiles a little wider. "Listen, I was planning to head back to base --"

"And I care *why*?"

"-- and I was just wondering if you'd like to accompany me. We could play subway tag on the way, you could leave some of my bodily fluids on the mats --"

Jason snorts, and there's a hint -- tantalizing, small, *there* -- of surprise. He crouches on the balustrade, and it looks like the wind has had plenty of time and opportunity to play hell with his hair, thicker than Tim's own, and --

"You could use my hair to buff your memorial. It could be a thing," Tim says, and moves his hand into position to pull his staff.

"Right. Take it easy, kid. I'm not out for *your* ass, tonight --"

"Maybe some other time."

And Jason's back on his feet *just* that fast, and it probably says something importantly problematic about Tim that he tends to respond so *well* to being loomed over.

Tim raises an eyebrow behind the mask and watches a frown that had *looked* mostly reflexive get a little darker. Memories, perhaps. "Really, I could just pencil you in --"

The armor catches most of Jason's first punch, the staff most of the second, and then it's a matter of -- education, really. The differences between having learned from a world-class assassin to having spent -- by all reports -- a fair amount of time with the *League* of Assassins.

Jason's moves are almost nothing like what Tim has seen in training videos and those few times when he'd managed to get close *enough*. This is the mistake Tim made the first time he'd gotten an opportunity like this one.

He won't make it again.

The trick -- such as it is -- is to simply tell himself that he's facing an older, stronger, bigger, and more experienced opponent who has no great urges toward Tim's well-being. As such, it should be no different than what has become reasonably *usual* --

It's different.

It's -- *better*.

Hours, years -- seconds trading blocks and strikes, and then they're on the balustrade proper, and Tim flips back out of range, ignores the feel of one foot slipping, extends his staff, and gives Jason a come-on.

"I *had* been planning on just letting you know there was something going on with Ivy and going my way, but..." Jason rolls his shoulders like a boxer and slips into a ready position that would tempt Shiva.

"Noted, Jason. Thank you." Tim slips his dangling foot into a better position, spins his staff, waits --

Not long. Jason, of course, has the edge on strength, but Tim has a minuscule edge on speed -- and the staff can and has stood up to bomb blasts. Tim spins, twists, blocks, strikes, aiming for Jason's legs whenever he gets a chance. Jason, for his part, is pushing Tim's balance to the limits, *making* him twist further, spin *harder* than he really wants to.

They *could* take this to the rooftop proper, but that would be...

It would take something *away* from this, and there's really no reason not to push this as far as he can --

Tim leaps over a sweep and strikes down with the staff -- and the power behind Jason's block gives him a choice between holding on to the staff and teetering just that little bit more. He'll remember that for the next time. For now, he flips again, gets his leg caught --

He kicks, and connects just enough to give him the momentum for a two-point landing --

Jason's kick takes him in the shoulder, knocks him back --

Tim sweeps back with the staff, bracing himself on one hand and one knee, leaning back under Jason's next kick and *punching* up -- contact --

"Somebody ate their *Wheaties* --"

"It's part of a complete -- ah -- breakfast," Tim says, somersaulting back -- and off the corner of the building. Tim moves to pull his grapple -- and Jason's hand is wrapped around Tim's forearm. Tim tucks in enough to hit the side of the building with the balls of his feet.

"Jesus fucking *amateur* --"

"And here I thought we were done," Tim says, and lets Jason haul him back. "You *do* realize I only had to fall about ten feet before I would've had a perfectly acceptable angle for my shot...?"

They're close now. Jason's breath smells like mint, and Jason's expression...

Jason looks like he's trying very hard not to just knock Tim unconscious and *then* shove him back off the roof.

It's not an effort Tim would've expected him to expend.

"Of course, if you wanted to continue our conversation, Jason, my offer is still open."

Jason starts to turn away -- and spins back around, grabs Tim by the throat, and lifts.

The gorget will protect him from being choked to a certain extent, but that doesn't seem to be what Jason wants --

"Tell me something, pretender."

"If I -- can," Tim says, and relaxes in Jason's grip.

"What -- do you get out of saying my name?"

That wasn't the first question that came to Jason's mind. Interesting. Still... "The pleasure of knowing you'll hear me," and he wants to smile, again -- he feels so *free* inside -- but he knows that it would probably be taken the wrong way. He settles for raising his eyebrow again and, after a moment, Jason lets him drop.

"The next time you get an urge to play, call your big brother," he says, and walks away. Jason's grapple-gun has a slightly more hollow pop than the ones they use and... and.

What to make of that little encounter? Jason had, apparently, come looking for him -- or, perhaps, the nearest likely Bat -- solely to provide information. If Tim is honest with himself, he'd precipitated their fight and --

Enjoyed it immensely.

And Jason had tried to *save* him. He'd clearly thought it was serious enough, or perhaps Tim simply hasn't yet given him enough reason to respect his abilities. Really, Tim has had much too long to get used to the way the other heroes trust him without question, simply because *Batman* does.

Jason...

Jason knows better than anyone how easy it is for Bruce to make mistakes. Hm.

Tim folds his staff and tucks it away. The *next* time he gets to see Jason -- and there will be one -- he can, perhaps, continue his efforts to rectify the entire situation.

Until such time, he has a patrol to finish.

*

He should be heading back to the Cave. He has reports to write, small deceptions to enact, sleep to catch up on -- all of the usual, with a little twist for his current status. It's just that he'd lost his bike, and it is, actually, much easier to get to Bludhaven from his section of Gotham than it is to get out to Bristol.

And --

He hasn't seen Dick in some few weeks, and he really needs to experiment with this a little. Fear has been a part of his life for as long as he can remember. *Dick* has been a part of his life for *nearly* as long as he can remember. He needs to know he can function like this, for more than just the parts of the mission which require him to be suited up.

He needs to know how this is going to work.

How to *make* it work.

All in all, train-surfing is much more pleasurable with company, but it gets him where he needs to be. Nice of the 'haven to give them all a nice, thorny, hostage situation this close to the J line.

Thorny enough that Dick doesn't acknowledge his presence with more than just a pat to the ledge next to him. Tim is, at least, some variety of welcome.

"Looks like some poor guy lost his job and most of his marbles at the same time," Dick says, and hands Tim his scope.

One guy, two very exciting-looking machine guns, four hostages in casual wear, lots of computer equipment... "Software firm?"

"Got it in one."

The line of sight is almost too perfect. "How long before SWAT wants our spot."

"They're at least half an hour out -- they had to pull in people who were off. This is the 'haven's *second* hostage sitch tonight." Dick frowns. "I think our guy is deteriorating."

He's either sweating, crying, or both. Shaking. Tim frowns slightly and hands back the scope. "How do you want us to do this?"

Dick drums his fingers on the ledge, tenses -- relaxes. He wants to move. "No roof access without the kind of loud, heavy equipment we're not carrying. The doors are surrounded by cops who really don't want to know from me, right now, so..."

"The windows. I'm still kitted up on everything but zip-strips from my patrol, Nightwing --"

"Then let's do this," he says, and there's a moment when they're both standing against the sky, grapple-guns ready --

And then they're in flight, air singing past them, blowing back his cape -- the tinkling crash of the windows makes Tim bare his teeth, and --

The nice thing about amateur hostage takers is that they *always* swing their weapons away from the civilians and *toward* the vigilantes, and then it's only a matter of directing the firepower as safely as possible, tumbling, flipping, throwing --

They'd both tossed two batarangs, and they'd all hit. Their guy is bleeding lightly from his arms and -- he'd dropped *one* of the guns. Dick's kick gets the other down on the floor, Tim kicks it aside, and it's only a moment before their target is subdued and trussed for the police --

An extremely hairy man -- stinking with fear-sweat -- throws himself at Tim, but he's neither armed nor moving with particular purpose. Tim accepts the hug and pats the man on the back.

Dick instructs the rest of the hostages on how best to exit the building without getting themselves shot, and Tim takes a moment to familiarize himself with the weapons.

Nothing special, beyond the usual brand of wonder at civilians managing to get their hands on this sort of thing in *this* state -- it will almost certainly turn out that the man had bought them on some road trip or another. There ought to be a way to make the gun control laws *count* for something, some way to scan for this sort of weapon, to narrow down opportunity for use, if not access --

Dick whistles, low and casual, and -- he's waiting for Tim at the window, smiling and quite obviously less tense than he was a bare few minutes ago. Tim leaves the guns for evidence, scans the hostage taker one last time to make sure he'll stay put, and follows.

The rooftop Dick leads him to isn't especially familiar to Tim. If it wasn't for the tinges of yellow in the Bludhaven sky, it could be a roof that they simply hadn't tagged as a r-point in Gotham. There are plenty of shadows, brickwork that isn't crumbling too much, and, when Tim checks, an excellent view of the eastern docks.

Dick crouches and pats a particularly deep patch of shadow -- he always tends to save the darkest areas for him. Tim smiles and settles in. Dick is going to want --

"Not that I don't appreciate the help -- and the visit, full stop -- but what's going on?"

-- to talk. "I saw Jason tonight."

"Jesus, that's -- are you all right? Christ, I -- I hate that that has to be my first question. I don't think you can *know* how much I hate it --"

Tim holds up a hand, noting that Dick has flipped his lenses up. No one is ever more conscious of the need to *connect* while in uniform -- no one could be. "We mixed it up a little -- nothing serious. I think he mainly just wanted to share intel."

"Nothing serious. Right, I --" Dick touches Tim's throat and frowns, and Tim... doesn't want that.

"To be honest, it's entirely possible that we *wouldn't* have mixed it up if I hadn't... pushed him, a little."

The frown gets a little deeper. "Pushed how?"

Tim smiles ruefully and spreads his hands. "I invited him back to the Cave. Joked around a little, tried to -- connect. It's possible I should leave that sort of thing to the people who actually -- knew him."

"It shouldn't matter. It just..." Dick slips his hand from Tim's throat to his shoulder, squeezes, pats, squeezes again. "Really shouldn't. But -- I guess I get that it does. I know Br -- B has a soft spot for Talia, but I'd *really* like to spend a little time with her over the whole 'keep Jason bottled up for *years*' thing."

Hm. "You think she changed more than his fighting style."

"Don't get me wrong, little brother -- Jason was always really *solid* within himself, and it's not like I'd ever put him up as a candidate for brainwashing, but... it really couldn't have helped, and -- you should know. It's not a small thing to change your whole fighting style."

Dick wouldn't think so and -- it's not that Tim can't see it. It's just that there have always been, for him, moves -- styles -- that he simply doesn't use unless he has to, moves that he learned with all of himself, because the alternative was painful death in France. "It must seem like he's lying to you. With his body, I mean."

"I hadn't really thought of it that way, but... you definitely have a point." Dick sighs and lets go of Tim's shoulder, rolling his head on his neck. "You said he had intel?"

"Apparently, there's something going on with Ivy. I'm hoping that our, to date, reasonably positive hero-villain relationship will -- ease things," Tim says, and -- moves closer.

"Hm, yeah, she always did kind of not want to feed you to her plants a lot," Dick says and -- yes. Throws an arm around Tim's shoulders. "Listen, I was going to patrol a little more, check out the areas where they had to pull units from for the hostage situations --"

Tim smiles. "Nightwing needs a Robin...?"

Dick laughs and gives him a squeeze -- and a handful of zip-strips from his boot.

Working with Dick is the same thrill as it ever was, the same *gift* to the young boy inside him still diligently editing his fantasies of crime-fighting to make sure Batman is somewhere within them.

Where Dick flies, Tim runs. Where Dick kicks high, Tim strikes low. Once -- just once -- they wind up back to back, and Tim feels himself loving it, *owning* it.

Every brush of uniform to uniform, every brief and coded direction --

"Seventeen," Dick says, and Tim runs himself up to speed, reaches back with his left arm --

And then Tim is flying, too, momentum and the steel in his boots ruining the evening of several gang members until Dick lets go and Tim can tumble through the air, stick his landing, turn --

Just in time to see Dick leap into a split-kick that takes two of the last three 'bangers right out of the game --

And the last one dropped his left just in time for Dick to strike out hard *as* he lands, and everyone's down but them.

Tim whistles and claps, Dick grins back over his shoulder -- gun, and Tim rips the shuriken off his chest and nails the man's hand to a handy rotting crate. The gun clatters to the ground --

"Ooh, *that* looks painful," Dick says, and backhands the would-be gunman to silence. "Any *particular* reason why you didn't aim for the *gun*, little brother...?"

Damn. He hadn't... he really hadn't been thinking about the potential to maim, the *fear* of doing it --

And Dick is looking at him very, very closely.

He has to be careful, here, and -- Tim shakes his head. "I really should've gone for the batarang," he says, wincing. "How bad is it?"

Dick sighs. "The birdarangs *look* cool, but they're really only right for close-work..." He jabs the man in the ribs.

"Hey, fuck, I'm down, I'm *down* --"

"Waggle. Your. Fingers," Dick says, making it sound like a threat to the man's entire ancestry.

Tim bites his tongue against a laugh which really wouldn't suit the moment at *all* --

"He'll be fine," and Dick leaves him there and shakes a finger at Tim. "*You* be careful next time, mister."

Tim blows out a breath and smiles ruefully. "I -- noted."

They use up Dick's supply of zip-strips and... it's getting light enough, now, that Tim isn't really surprised when their jump-line route gets to be familiar. They're headed back to Dick's new place. It's a loft in the 'haven version of the middle of nowhere, and Dick owns the entire building.

It's the first time Tim has been there. The warehouse proper is clean and empty save for some athletic equipment. Tim looks around -- one of the mats is slightly askew. "Hidden basement?"

Dick looks at him from under his lashes. "You could've pretended that it took you longer to find."

Tim throws up his hands. "What can I say? I'm a naturally suspicious soul."

"What you *are*," Dick says, cupping the back of Tim's head and pulling him close, "is about three seconds from stripping off and heading to my nice, clean shower."

Oh -- yes. "I should --"

"Nope. You're crashing here tonight."

There are freedoms Tim doesn't like to think about. Opportunities and *freedoms* that are all about the fact that he has a profound lack where his parents used to be. His father would want him to be happy, but his father hadn't much cared for the things which *make* Tim happy, and --

"Hey, are you okay?"

Dick has paused, peeled out of the top of his suit and very clearly picking up on at least most of the signals Tim is sending. That's -- he wants that, and if that means Dick picks up on this, too... Tim shrugs. "I was thinking about my father," Tim says, and accepts the hug with all of himself.

"You know, I... I know you don't always get on that well with Bruce, and *you* know I hate that like crime, but you always have a space here, okay?"

Tim squeezes Dick. "I know."

"Good," Dick says, and kisses the top of Tim's ear.

It's just Dick being affectionate -- he knows that with a clarity that usually, at times like these, is so buried under Tim's fear of being *noticed* that he can't touch it. It *is* just Dick being Dick, and so there's really no good reason why Tim has -- decided.

It's just that awareness of that fact is, ultimately, rather meaningless. Tim squeezes Dick a little harder and turns his head enough to rest against Dick's shoulder and chest --

"Mm. I'm not gonna get tired of *this* anytime soon," Dick says, and -- relaxes. It's just a small shift -- he wasn't *very* tense -- but it's noticeable.

Dick, he knows, has never been entirely sure of his welcome when it comes to this sort of thing. When he's not being playful, he's being a very Dickish variety of *careful*, and... yes, Tim would like, very much, to ease Dick away from that habit, even if it's only for tonight.

To that end, Tim bites back the urge to say something about how they both need to get clean -- *he* is never going to get tired of the scent of Dick's sweat mingling with armor -- and thinks, thinks -- yes.

"Sometimes," Tim says, and rubs his cheek against Dick's shoulder, "I miss this. I miss you."

"Hey, you -- you should never miss me. Anytime you need, anytime you *want* --"

"I know. It's still good to hear. And feel," and Dick strokes up under Tim's cape. The sound of his hands on the tunic is --

Deeply, incredibly frustrating.

"Okay, I definitely need to get out of this suit for the night --"

Dick laughs and pushes away. "Yeah, you do. It felt like I was petting a *rock* --"

"I've had some very deep, personal relationships with rocks." Just as an example, the one Steph had socked him with the first time they'd met. He's not sure if the one in his closet is the very same one -- it had been some time before he went back to that rooftop to look -- but...

"So, am I still going to get cuddle once you're out of there? I'm willing to beg -- that was..." Dick's smile is soft and somewhat paradoxically distant. "That was really nice."

Who was he thinking of? Oracle, maybe...? Something to ask another time, perhaps. Tim releases the catch on his cape and smiles back. "Oh, I don't think you'll have to beg. I'm a primate, Dick. I go a little funny in the head without regular physical contact."

"See, and if I *hadn't* been trying and failing to get that lesson to sink in for *years*," and Dick's hand is in his hair. Not quite ruffling, not quite petting.

Tim opens his tunic. "Sometimes I'm a slow learner...?"

Dick touches Jason's scar and frowns -- no, no, no.

"You know it's a lot uglier than it was serious, at the time --"

"I just wondered how you explained it to..." Dick's frown gets deeper, harder. "Shit, I'm sorry."

The truth is that Tim had worn turtlenecks for a few days, hypoallergenic concealer for a week, and after that... after that neither his father nor Dana had noticed. Whether or not this is a truth which has any place *here* tonight... Tim shakes his head. "It's okay. Just... pretend we had a long, heartfelt talk about everything and now is the part where we hug it out." Tim drops his tunic and strips out of the undershirt, more heavily armored than the one he used to wear to complement the *less* armored tunic --

"You're really... you didn't even put up a fight about staying here and -- you missed me."

Tim works on the belt and looks up from under his lashes. "Technically, I *also* wanted to borrow one of your bikes, but... yes, Dick. It feels like years since we just... spent time together."

Dick's smile is broad enough that it's hard to believe he was frowning just a moment ago. "That settles it. One of these days I'm rolling up into Bristol and just taking you for a day or five."

Tim raises an eyebrow and drops the belt -- carefully. "I'll keep a bag packed by the door."

Dick brings a hand to his face and strokes his own chin. "Hmm, I... no, I don't think so. Alfred will just hide it."

Alfred hadn't been unseemly about Tim moving back into the manor -- Alfred may not be capable of that -- but... but. Something to think about, perhaps beyond the way that Robins just sort of *belong* in certain distinct parts of the world. Tim lifts his foot and tugs off his boot. "I suppose I shouldn't rig it with booby traps."

Dick snorts and takes the boot, and the other one. "No. And you definitely shouldn't smear it with blood and scatter clues to recent cases around it, no matter *how* much Bruce is annoying you."

Tim slips his thumbs under the waistbands of his shorts and tights --

"Hey, I haven't even shown you where the shower is."

Tim pauses. Dick is...

Dick is, most probably, waiting for Tim's blush. It's fair -- he'd found ways to maintain his privacy during No Man's Land before it got too cold to ever strip off entirely. The fact that he wants to reach out, take Dick's hand, and place it firmly on his hip is a fact whose time has not yet come. Still. "I figured I'd just leave my things in your hidden basement and *then* head upstairs."

Dick -- is that a blush? "Okay, yeah, that *is* more efficient. Don't mind me, kiddo, I'm clearly running my sleep debt tab a little high."

Tim grins -- "Noted," and pushes the rest of his uniform off. All that's left are briefs and a jock, and there's no good reason not to wait until he's about to get in the shower to take those off, more's the pity. They take his suit downstairs, fix the mats into something that looks both casual and permanent, and then Tim starts for the stairs to the loft --

"There's something you're not telling me," Dick says, softly. Curiously. Invitingly --

It's not a touch, and Tim refuses to blame himself for loving that it *is* one, anyway. Tim curls his fingers around the banister and looks back over his shoulder. Dick is paused at the foot of the stairs, waiting and watchful.

"Tim..."

"It's -- one of the reasons why I'm here, Dick."

"To... tell me."

Tim takes a breath and doesn't bother to close his mouth all of the way before saying, "Or show you."

The fascinating thing about the feeling inside him, the spare, empty feeling which makes every breath feel like a deep one, every moment feel like flight, *freedom* --

The fascinating thing is that all the old, useless messages are still right there. To close his mouth, to turn around, to hide the flush on his face by any means necessary, including a sudden, random decision to take the stairs at a brisk *jog*.

It's just that he doesn't have to do any of the above, and *not* doing them means being right there for Dick's slow advance, holding Dick's gaze and letting him see the way Tim's breathing, the way he's doing nothing at all which even vaguely resembles --

"Tim."

-- running away. Tim turns around. "Dick."

The stairs flip the height difference enough to make the kiss a little -- he's never kissed anyone from this angle, and the feel is just strange enough to make Tim hum into it --

It could very well be just the fact of it. It could...

It could be Dick's hands on his hips, strong but hiding that behind a touch so gentle -- Tim hums again and uses his mouth to open Dick's a little wider, and Dick squeezes, licks Tim's lips, coaxes --

Tim slips his tongue in and Dick jerks him forward, making Tim need to step down with one foot, grab the banister and the wall to keep his momentum from knocking them both down the stairs --

"Sorry, I, Jesus --"

The angle has shifted enough to make *this* kiss a little more familiar, a little closer to -- no, he doesn't want to make any comparisons and there's no reason to do anything of the kind. Dick wasn't expecting this kiss with anything but his body -- that's clear enough by the way Dick's hands spread and splay against his rear, the way Dick's frowning even as he *sucks* Tim's tongue --

Tim moans and cups the back of Dick's head. His hair is cool and sleek against Tim's fingers, his scalp warm and a little sweat-damp -- Dick pulls back.

"Tim, are you --"

"I'm sure. I'm -- heh..." Tim takes his other hand off the banister and grips one of Dick's wrists, squeezing until Dick eases his own grip and Tim can drag his hand over his groin --

Dick's moan makes the world a much, much warmer place.

"Or we could... our options are pretty open, Dick. I... wow, that feels --"

A squeeze, and not even a hard one. Is it that it's Dick's hand? Is it the look in Dick's eyes, and the way they're narrowing? The way there's a little color --

It's something, and it's worth investigation and a large amount of experimentation, and it's making Tim feel a little unsteady in the knees --

And a lot more than that when Dick licks his lips and starts to rub through the briefs -- Tim grabs the banister, again, pants --

"I just want you to know. I -- am not averse to doing this right *here*," Tim says, and decides to give himself credit for getting that out against the feel of Dick *riding* him with his palm --

And kissing him again, harder this time, and Tim's hand feels irrelevant and potentially dangerous in Dick's hair -- he might accidentally tug and give Dick the notion that he means *stop* -- and taking that hand away might *also* send the wrong message.

He can feel -- "I need to get out of this jock --"

"Yes," Dick says, and licks Tim's jaw. "Yes, you really, really do," and Dick pulls back a little more, stops *touching* -- raises an eyebrow.

And that's more than enough of a warning to prepare Tim for the shove that leaves him sprawled on the stairs, one leg dangling over a *drop* -- Tim laughs, braces himself, lifts his hips --

And Dick pulls down his briefs and -- *frees* him, and maybe freedom was never something which could be known in one moment -- even one as perfect as Dick lowering himself over Tim and *taking* another kiss --

Maybe that's the point of freedom, that it just keeps growing, expanding, pushing --

Dick's kiss has a lot in common with the less problematic aspects of being *stabbed* --

Dick's *grind* is too sleek, too gentle even with the edges of the steps digging in -- he's still wearing the tights for his uniform, and *that's* a problem. Tim bites Dick lip gently --

"Probably... probably we should go *up* the stairs, little brother --"

"Certainly at some point. But ah -- you're not naked enough."

Dick blinks, pants -- "You're absolutely right, and I want you to know that I plan to listen closely to all further ideas you have along those lines."

"Oh, good -- mm --"

Dick's bracing himself with one hand and using the other to push and shove and pull and generally make it seem as though his uniform is both too tight and -- considering all the good things Dick's motion against Tim's body is causing to happen -- absolutely wonderful, even though this kiss is an awkward thing, messy and too open, open enough that Tim's moan is too loud --

And Dick's still *wriggling* even when he ducks his head to Tim's throat -- licks the scar, bites -- "Oh -- *fuck* --"

Dick pulls *back* --

"Hey, don't --"

"I was just --" Dick stops shoving at his tights and cups Tim's cheek. "We still okay?"

Tim smiles. "If you're worried about freaking me out..."

Dick raises his eyebrows and pointedly looks down between their bodies. "I *might* be having a few thoughts along those lines, yes --"

"You shouldn't."

"Tim --"

"I trust you," Tim says, and curls his fingers in against Dick's scalp, scratching a little before he tugs. "I've always trusted you."

Dick closes his eyes and blows out a breath -- he looks dangerously close to *thinking* --

"Dick --"

"Then keep trusting me," he says, standing up and offering his hand.

Tim takes it, wondering if frowning would damage the moment any more than it had already *been* damaged -- oh. This kiss comes complete with both of Dick's hands on his face, holding Tim still and just -- licking, sucking, biting, *licking* --

"You taste... heh, I don't know yet. Let me get back to you," and Dick kisses him again, and again, soft and quick -- and pushes until Tim starts walking backwards up the stairs.

All right, it *would* be safer and more comfortable -- does he want comfortable? Tim has imagined this in beds, of course, but he's also imagined it on floors, rooftops, against walls, doors --

Not against *this* door, though, really, Dick had only just moved in a little while ago. He would've found the time -- eventually --

"Ah, God, Dick --"

"*Right* here," he says, twining his fingers between Tim's own and pressing them against the door, kicking the tights off entirely and pressing *Tim* against the door and -- thrusting pushing grinding --

"Dick, please, Dick -- you feel -- so good --"

"The feeling is about as mutual as it can get, here, up on your toes --"

Up on his toes means Dick's erection is sliding against his own, rhythmic, desperate -- no, that's him, that's -- "Dick, you're going to make me -- make me come --"

And Dick drops to his knees --

"Oh -- oh God --"

"Say *yes*."

"Absolutely. I mean 'yes.' I mean -- ah --"

Lightning, need -- *need*, and the heat is blinding and perfect, wonderful -- should it be terrifying?

Should he care?

Tim feels himself grinning, feels himself *thrusting*, and Dick's groan slices right through him, vibrates into him, makes him shake, shudder all over --

"*Dick* --"

And then Dick cups his sac and squeezes, and every light in the world blasts Tim to ash.

Awareness comes in pulses. His own scent, high and obvious in the air. The feel of Dick's shoulders under his hands. The sound of his pants. The knowledge that he's curled in on himself and *gripping* Dick's shoulders --

The feel of Dick nuzzling his mound, pushing the hair up against the grain -- Tim shivers, breathes, and stands up.

"Tim..."

Tim smiles. "When I thought about doing this with someone..."

Dick's hands shake a little on Tim's hips. How hard is *he*? "I'm listening, little brother." His voice is so gentle...

"I always wondered if it was correct to apologize for not lasting for *this*. I mean --"

"Oh, I..." Dick laughs and kisses the bowls of Tim's hips, once and once. "Yeah, that was a terrible hardship. I'm going to need at least another thirty seconds before I want to do it again."

Tim grins. "Noted, but -- come up here?"

Dick does, and the smile on his face looks even better close up. Tim leans in -- "Looking to taste yourself...?"

He hadn't even *thought* -- "*Yes*."

Dick laughs again and presses his open mouth against Tim's own, just -- leaving himself open, available, *willing* for Tim to lick his mouth clean, taste the salt of himself on the backs of Dick's teeth, breathe himself in with every exhale --

Tim hears the sound of a door opening, but it doesn't really register as anything important until Dick pushes and Tim notes that they're moving backwards. Ah. *Inside* the loft.

That's good, too, but -- "Dick, I love kissing you. I love *you* -- oh, don't pull away --"

"You've never said that, but you've also never done *this* --" Dick shivers and pushes Tim toward the -- yes, that's the bed pushing on the backs of Tim's knees.

Tim lets himself fall, bracing himself on his elbows and scooting further back onto the bed. "Is my timing off...?"

"Maybe you should consider giving the elderly ex-Robin a few minutes to get used to the fact that you -- *you* -- came here to seduce me."

Would it be better or worse to point out that he hadn't fully decided until after he was already here? Tim does his best to make his smile look rueful -- difficult, considering the fact that Dick's standing there naked and *hard* -- He has to make a choice. "I've been thinking about it for a long time. I've -- always been attracted."

Dick crawls onto the bed and kisses him. "You just wanted to wait until it felt right?"

Sure. Tim nods and touches Dick's cheek. The stubble is light at the moment, meaning that Dick hadn't shaved until not long before he started his long patrol. "You're not trying for daylight hours anymore, are you?"

Dick shrugs, shifts --

They both groan a little at the contact --

"The classes I teach are in the afternoons and -- you need to tell me what you want."

Everything, all at once. But, for a *start*... "I liked it when you were moving against me. The frottage --"

"Oh, God, just call it rubbing off or something before I feel like I need to put on a *lab* coat."

Tim laughs, softly, and wraps his hands around Dick's neck. "Noted, and -- mmm."

"Oh, yeah, I *believe* in that 'mmm' and also let me just --" Dick gasps and almost croons, a little, moving slow --

"Don't hold yourself back --"

"Don't let me hurt you," Dick says, and reaches back with one hand to pull Tim's knee up in a stretch he *hadn't* taught Tim himself, but --

He's the one Tim learned it *for*. Tim brings his other knee up, locks them around Dick's chest --

"God, you feel good. Hard and sleek -- I'm gonna make you harder."

Tim feels himself flushing again -- "*Yes* --"

"You -- oh, it's possible that you won't get much *sleep* here, little -- little brother --"

"You can wear me out, make me take it, Dick, make me --"

"Oh, fuck and *hell*, keep talking like that, keep --"

"You can *fuck* me, Dick..."

He's moving faster now, rolling against Tim like a wave of warm muscle and flesh. It's not enough to just have his arms around Dick's neck, and it's still not enough when Tim starts stroking his back, his obliques, everywhere he can reach --

"I just want to touch you, I've always wanted -- you're so beautiful, Dick --"

"Jesus. Jesus, Tim, I --"

"You feel amazing under my hands, your sweat, your -- I change my mind, I want to taste you, too --"

This kiss is bruisingly hard, hard enough that Tim knows his lips will be swollen for at least a while after -- and then Dick flips them over, and Tim grinds down -- gets pushed, on his shoulders --

"Oh -- *fuck*, yes, Dick," and Tim kisses his way *down*. Part of him wants to take it slow, but Dick had *pushed*, and so he doesn't try to get fancy until he's below Dick's navel, and he can scrape his teeth a little, feel Dick *buck*, go down slow and take Dick as deep as he can.

"Tim, I -- oh fuck, fuck, I didn't mean to *push*, I --"

Tim wraps his hand around the base, sucks hard, and Dick *shouts*, pushes his hands into Tim's hair and tries to pull Tim back --

"Jesus fucking -- little brother, God, I don't want --"

The *taste*, but -- Tim pulls off. "Sorry, I must've misunderstood --"

"No, you didn't, but --" Dick bangs his head against the pillows and groans. "Okay. Okay. How much of this is you talking dirty and how much is it you actually doing what you *want*?" And Dick lets go of Tim's hair with one hand and sits up on his elbow.

"It's both. It really --" Tim licks his teeth. "*Both*, Dick."

Dick exhales sharply and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. "I can't believe -- God, I can't *think* --"

"Then trust *me*," Tim says, and strokes Dick's hips -- the *scent*, and he's leaning in again, wanting again -- He has to keep Dick on *target* --

"God, do it, do *me* -- *Tim* --"

Down again, and maybe this is a little too much for him, for them -- he should *pretend* fear, at least a little bit...

Tim looks up at Dick from under his lashes, lets his eyes widen, forces himself to try not to think about how *beautiful* Dick looks, how heavy and wonderful he is on Tim's tongue --

And Dick reaches out and strokes Tim's cheek.

"It's okay. It's -- oh, you feel so damned *good* --"

He wants to tell Dick that he *does* feel good, feels right and perfect inside for the first time in his *life*. He wants Dick to understand that, and accept -- Tim's not stupid. He *knows* Dick will want to fix him, cure him of this wonderful *thing* --

It's enough that he can have *this*, that he can make Dick moan and thrust up into Tim's fist, into Tim's *mouth*, make Dick tease the head of his penis against Tim's palate, make Dick *moan*.

Tim sucks as hard as he can and flutters his tongue, trying to remember any one thing Dick had done to him and failing -- it was just too good, too solid and unbreachable an act to compartmentalize --

"Look -- oh please look at me, Tim --"

This time, the moan cracks in Dick's throat, gets high and breathy, sharp and *sweet*. Tim honestly isn't sure *what* look is on his face, but he hopes he'll be able to remember the feel of it for further use --

"You... God, how much you *want* me --"

For this, he can be greedy. For this act and for this feeling, kissing his own fist and beating back his gag reflex by sheer force of will.

"I don't want you to pull off, I -- God, I need this, need you, Timmy --"

Dick, Tim thinks, and feels it all, everything it means, everything he's *taking*. He closes his eyes and hums, deliberately hard and loud --

"*Tim* --"

And Dick's coming in his mouth, pulse after pulse, salt and sweet, *hot*. Tim swallows and licks, sucks -- coughs and coughs harder, pulls back. Dick gets him on the cheek -- And Dick is hauling him up onto his knees by main force, kissing him, licking his face when Tim turns aside to cough a little more --

"Shh, you're okay, you're --" Dick's laugh is soft and a little wild. "*Are* you okay?"

Tim nods and works on catching his breath -- a bit more difficult a task than usual with Dick still kissing all over his face.

"That was *fantastic*. Where the *hell* did you learn how to do that?"

Tim takes a deep breath and grins. "The internet is for porn...?"

Dick snorts, hugs him, and pulls them down onto the bed, pushing and folding and manipulating until Tim's on his back and Dick is half on top of him. "And you've just been saving this up, because you're *you*, and you probably had to get it exactly right in your head before you could even..." Dick laughs again and shakes his head.

"Planning is an important part of a satisfying life, Dick."

"So is *spontaneity*, kiddo, and no, I am *not* complaining. I feel like I could take off into the sky and give Clark a run for his money."

Clark. Hmm. "What's he like? Sexually, I mean?"

Dick stiffens, looks at him --

Hell --

"Are you seriously asking me that question? You *never* let me talk about my sex life --"

"Because I was afraid you'd notice my *erection*, Dick." That's even mostly true --

"And you, of course, weren't *ready* for me to notice it and think anything more serious than 'adolescent hormones.'" Dick squeezes Tim with his leg. "Though there is method in it, this is *madness*, little brother. You -- you've gotta realize that."

Saved. Tim breathes, and thinks about what Dick had actually *said*. "Well, I... even if we could've done this before --"

"We really," kiss, "really," lick, "really," kiss -- "could have."

"I wouldn't have been ready. I --" Bring up how he hasn't been able to really give Steph what she wants? Yes? No? No -- "I wouldn't have been ready," he says, again, and shifts until he can rest his neck against Dick's arm -- and be in position to get a few of those kisses on the mouth.

Dick frowns and strokes Tim's ear with his thumb. "I get that. I mean, I think I can get that..."

"But?"

"Sex just kind of *happened* for me. One minute I'm not thinking about it, the next minute I can't *stop* thinking about it, and -- well, it wasn't too long after that that Clark kissed me for the first time. I guess I just never put much planning *into* it -- heh. Maybe I should have."

How powerful was Clark at the time? How much did he *notice* Dick's new... focus? They and Bruce worked together a lot at the time... it's *possible* Clark hadn't had to do it from a distance...

"Hey, where'd you go?"

Tim smiles -- makes it rueful. "I think I probably would've had a stroke if I'd ever gotten a picture of you and Clark."

Dick licks Tim's cheek again. "I -- heh. He's pretty gosh-darned Super, little brother. And he can hear every single word we're saying, so you might just want to --"

"Speak up? And -- well, he might not be *listening*, Dick."

"True, true, and -- just to be sure we're on the same page, here -- when you said you were ready for sex, what you *meant* was that you were *ready* for *sex*. Right?"

There's nothing to *fear* -- "Ah -- got it in one."

"And..." Dick's expression shifts to something a little darker. "And Steph?"

Oh -- Steph. Mm. "We have a date tomorrow night. Late. I'm reasonably sure she knows about it."

"God, I --" Dick laughs, softly at first and then louder, shaking them both and the bed -- a little.

Tim smiles. "Yes...?"

"I -- really can't fault your taste. And. You can shower in the morning. I'm taking my cuddles while the cuddlin' is good."

The length of that patrol, added to 'playtime' with Dick... morning is going to be more like afternoon.

Tim can live with that -- if Bruce doesn't know where he is, he can just check the tracers.

"Noted," he says, and rubs the back of his neck against Dick's arm.

And closes his eyes.

*